#slight intent of projection

[ishuetime]

There is not single life in this empty slot for me—

The machine has overflown, with coins that have redeemed— that,

I know that punching rags can be bad for the best,

I cannot stop listening.

Maybe I will move to one another that will be there, waiting patiently for...

You cannot look into this empty soul, I am not on for sale,

If you look into another isle there might be another there,

You cannot look back I cannot forget of what you brought me into,

What the unknown might be for.

The section of the cursed apple might be tempting for to see,

See that when you have take a bite, a glisten of sin will be—

At night, a fresh pick of lemon is waiting for me...

And you enjoy the sweet taste.

Somewhere at night I will have hear sound of a train approaching closely,

Then maybe he will have thrown me off onto the train tracks of death,

I will have see your hand by reach out forward as to extending,

Then I have understand your intent was for me to reach above my limits.

Find that the apple has turned out to start have rotting from the—

Your lips have withhold all the foul lies that whispered into,

It seep into the core the seeds don't start, they become to wear out,

The apple of illusion that you, created out of your own pleasure,

You will not ever talk again, we'll be seeing our way out.

[dogs-with-lightsabers]

i am here to yap about the alternate universes i wanna write about/exist in my head! like two-four dw

main okwd verse, featuring akira, yui, and minato: as on the label, the main world i’m writing in! we’ve got rift hunter yosuke, deity akira, transfem yui, etc. not much i wanna say here for the time, but this is where just about everything is happening

Q2 connection aka kotone’s world, featuring ren, souji, and kotone: oh boy, this is deep! so the leader/field team leader of each team is different from main world. in fact, kotone remembers q2 and is able to talk to yosuke leading to akira living to p5 era in her world, despite not ending up as the leader of the pts. (akira and yosuke would have died if she hadn’t remembered, dying in an early mental shutdown incident and leaving rei as the sole caretaker of probationary ren)

Q2 note - each of these two worlds has a q and q2 but it’s the latter that changes drastically. post october kotone and minato end up in the alternate worlds q2, whereas the ‘younger’ versions are from september? both remember but minato doesn’t warn his worlds ren, who could’ve gone on to also be like alt akira (this sounds messy but whatever)

no wildcards: operates kind of like p1 and 2. each team member gets velvet room access and a limited set of personas across certain arcanas. dojima’s older sister never married or had children, instead being a kind of wine aunt to nanako who still has her mom. both twins died in the car crash that killed their parents, and shit happened to akira and ren and neither made it past puberty (i don’t want to write about this world, but the idea was in my head and i need to write it down, i’m sorry)

all the wildcards, featuring akira and ren, yui and souji, minato and kotone: the doozy! yippee! i’ve mentioned this in another post but here; yui and souji are fraternal twins with different fathers, their mom never marry and they both have dojima as their surname. souji transitions young and takes advantage of the move to do more but yui figures it out over the year. minato and kotone both manage to survive the car crash and end up back in iwatodai as teens, and akira and ren both end up in tokyo during the mental shutdowns, falling into kamoshidas palace at the same time (similar to a post merge world, but more like if everyone aware of the merge had to relive their lives to the point of the merge to make it seamless)

@verysexyseagull working on drawing side by sides of my wildcard, look forward to it 🩵🩵🩵

[drytacomeat]

Yandere!Femboy who keeps “accidentally” sending you nudes.

It started with intentional soft porn basically: him making little videos or taking little pics showing off some new lingerie he bought. He just wanted your opinion of course! No ulterior motives.

Then he began exclusively sending close ups of the front of his panties, cock hard through them or close ups of his ass.

Still…you thought nothing of it. He loved you, but he hated how oblivious you could be so he reasoned that it would be best to get more…intense.

First, he sent you one particular picture in a pair of pink panties. He was standing up in front of the camera with his arms holding up his (your) fluffy pink hoodie that he hadn’t washed since he stole it from you. His slight abs were on show for you as was his tiny waist.

But that wasn’t the star of the show, no. If you would be just a little more observant, the tip of his leaky cock was sticking out of the hem of the underwear!

When you mentioned it to him, he was quick to defend and claimed he hadn’t even noticed! Silly him!

The next occurrence was a step much farther than the previous one because…why the fuck hadn’t you made a move on him yet?

You both had lecture that morning, but you noticed that your yandere had not come to class. He usually never missed a class, so you thought that was weird.

Just when you were about to text him and ask him about his absence, you noticed he had sent you a video!

You figured the poor thing was probably sending you a rant about how sick he was feeling or how his car broke down or something!

But no, when you clicked on the video, there he was laid upon his bed of pink and white covers. Sure, that wasn’t weird, but he was lying there completely bare accept for a pair of knee high socks.

Your eyes widened as you realized that he was pumping his oddly thick and long cock quickly. It was so pretty too, nice and pink right at the tip. He had put lots of lube on his cock so it was shining and shlicking as he pumped himself. Thank god you had your headphones in!

His moans were so sweet, and his whimpers were oh so needy.

He was staring directly into the camera as he began to speed up his movements, biting his bottom lip harshly. His tongue lolled out of his mouth as he began pumping himself faster. Drool dripped down his tongue, his stomach flexed and tightened, and he was pumping himself at the speed of light almost.

Next thing you know, you heard a particularly whiny and high pitched moan as he came all over himself. His face was scrunched so prettily and lewdly, white pearly droplets of cum falling all over his hand and stomach.

As he came down from his high, he began to smile cutely at the camera before dipping his finger down into the cum and sucking it off with a loud *pop!*

He fluttered his eyelashes prettily before he reached for the phone, ending the video.

You came back to yourself, mouth gaping and eyes blinking as your screen went dark. Nobody sat behind you or beside you expect for him, so you were able to take a second to just process what you were sent.

When you gained function of your brain again, you shot off a text:

“Did you mean to send this to me?”

The situation that really ticked you off though?

You were assigned a group project for your physics class. The group you had been assigned to happened to be some people who were mentors in an association you were planning to join.

You were so excited about getting an opportunity to converse with them, you had forgot that you and your yandere had planned on watching movies together that night.

He was so pissed off when you canceled on him last minute that he had to figure out a way to sabotage the entire meeting.

He snuck into the study room you all had booked for the evening and cut the wires on the projectors. Then, he stole all of the paperwork you had for the project and shredded it! Don’t worry, he made copies so you wouldn’t receive a complete zero! He know how important your studies where to you.

But, your project was practically done for and your colleagues thought you were incompetent and irresponsible.

Don’t you worry, though. Your sweet yandere had a nice, lovely surprise for you.

As you arrived back to your dorm, absolutely drained from the day, you unlocked your phone to check up on any unread messages.

Of course your yandere has bombarded you with messages. You open up you guys’ chat to be met with a bunch of random messages and other stuff. You sighed as you continued to stroll down until the very bottom.

Weird. It seems he sent you video the exact moment you got home. The video had a cover photo of two kittens with the caption “us” on it.

You smiled as you clicked on the video, but your face quickly dropped as the cover photo went away. After about a second, you were met with you yandere sat directly in front of the camera, sat on his knees on the floor. He was bare ass naked on the hardwood floor of his apartment and his ass sat taut faced away from the direction of the camera.

He had a clear dildo nestled between his cheeks. He looked towards the camera with a pout before positioning the dildo towards his hole and dropping down onto it immediately.

His eyes rolled to back of his head as he let out a lewd mewl.

You quickly gasped and shut your phone off.

What the fuck was his problem?

Sorry for any errors! I’m a bit of a lazy writer and hoping to answer some requests soon!

[distantdarlings]

LET ME // t. nott

RATING: R / 4.8K WORDS

Theodore Nott x Fem Reader

+ SUMMARY - *Requested, based on this* Theodore Nott has been harassing you ever since he found out you had a crush on him. Now, you’ve been paired together for a project for McGonagall’s class and he has nothing good in mind.

+ WARNINGS - SMUT! (P in V), unprotected, sub!reader, Dom!Theo, slightly rough!dom!Theo, marking kink, slight size kink, bulge kink, brief dumbification, brief spit kink, reader wearing a skirt, light enemies to lovers, language, one (1) slap, name-calling, praise kink, slight degradation, public sex, fem!reader, oral (fem!receiving), Theo is persistent, not proof read (lmk if I missed any)

+ MUSIC (listened to while writing) -

Echo - XANU

- - -

Merlin, forgive whatever you had done to deserve the treatment you were currently receiving.

You thought back on every negative deed you’d done in the last year and still hadn’t found anything worthy of your horrendous luck.

The arrogant boy turned to stare you down, malicious intent etched into the unfortunately gorgeous features of his face.

You could feel your face contort into an expression of horror as you tore your eyes away from him and turned to Professor McGonagall.

“Professor, I—” you started.

“All partner decisions are final—no exceptions!” McGonagall finished, as if trying to answer the question you had before you could even voice it.

You deflated into your seat, your mood dropping like a brick. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have guessed the entire class was staring at you. The entire student body of Hogwarts knew how you felt about your new Transfiguration project partner, Theodore Nott. The bastard…

You glanced back up—arms crossed and lips pouted—just to find the boy still staring you down, evil smirk painted on his lips. He gave you a sardonic wave, wiggling his fingers tauntingly.

“Fuck,” you sighed, pressing an exasperated fist to your forehead.

Your knee anxiously bobbed beneath the desk, the heel of your uniform shoe beating against the floor in a flurried rhythm.

Luna Lovegood, your best friend, was sitting directly next to you. Intuitive as she always was, you knew she could feel the pure panic radiating off of you. Her hand rested on your shoulder in a small motion of comfort, but nothing could calm you now. You were utterly screwed.

McGonagall finished off the rest of her speech on the instructions for her project, then dismissed the whole class. Luna helped you to gather your things together as you struggled to force yourself to move.

Maybe you’d pissed McGonagall off? Merlin, what had you done to deserve this? You asked yourself the same questions over and over again.

Out of the corner of your eye, you glimpsed Theodore flouncing over to you with an unnerving glint in your eyes.

“Well, aren’t I just the luckiest man on earth?” he said snidely.

“Fuck off, Theo,” you growled, intentionally not making eye contact with him.

You made to pick up your books and slide them into your bag, when he slammed his hand down on the cover of one of them, pressing them down against the desk. He pinned your fingers beneath them against the wood—just enough to keep them sturdy, but light enough so that it didn’t hurt you.

“Stop!” You yanked your fingers out from beneath the books, the heavy leather smacking against the table with a thud. Now, you made eye contact with him.

“What are we going to do our project on, baby?” he asked.

“Don’t call me that!” You yanked your books out from underneath his strong hold and shoved them quickly into your bag. “We can discuss it in the library after class.”

“I’m looking forward to it—I’ll be sure we get a quiet corner, you know…,” he stepped closer to you, “…so I can explore every inch of…the subject.”

You sneered in disgust and pulled away from him, his voice still rattling in your ears.

“You’re disgusting,” you scoffed. “I’ll see you later for nothing more than our assignment.”

“Looking forward to it…can’t wait to put those big brains to use. Lovegood.” He nodded politely to Luna before heading off.

You glanced at Luna and acknowledged her slight smile. Everything in you was telling you to snap at her and tell her not to encourage any of the delinquent boy’s behavior, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to ever be very mad at Luna Lovegood. At least, not for long.

Instead, you rolled your eyes and took off toward the door, bag swinging between your shoulder blades.

“Wait up, friend!” Luna shouted lightly, running to catch up with you. You snorted and laughed at her, letting her sunlight hair fall into step beside you.

- - -

By the time your last class of the day dismissed and the sun had begun to sink beneath the Hogwarts skyline, you were soaked through with nerves. The saturation of your anxiety had managed to breach every protective barrier you held up, and fill your hands with shudders and your stomach with nausea.

The root of your nerves when it came to Theo came from the consistent comments he insisted on making toward you. It seemed that he loved nothing more than dropping sexual hints into your ear every few days just to watch you squirm. He’d only started this after he’d heard through the grapevine you had a bit of a thing for him.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t find him attractive, and that his words had absolutely no effect on you, but you couldn’t deny that he was just as annoying as he was charming.

It had gotten to a point when he made those comments that he loved to joke aloud about your reactions to him, effectively embarrassing you in front of all of your peers. That was your final straw. All resemblance of an attraction toward Theo had melted away and been replaced by hatred.

And yet, as your feet led you to the grand library, you couldn’t stop the rapid pattering of your heart beat. Something about the boy had always been so…irresistible to you. Whether it was the way he always knew where to place his hands when he “accidentally” brushed you, or how he knew exactly what to say when he pressed his lips against the shell of your ear. You figured you should be grossed out and tell him to get away from you, but, unfortunately, you kind of liked it when he did those things.

As you came up to one of the several library doors lining the wall before you, you decided to try and swallow your nerves and focus only on the project. That was what you were supposed to do anyway—this wasn’t a date.

You pulled one of the doors open and slipped into the warmly-lit room. It always seemed to be just a tad bit cozier here than anywhere else in the castle—whether that was from the multiple fireplaces or the sweet aroma that floated through the air. Either way, you loved it.

Your neck craned as you glanced about, trying to glimpse the cocky boy, but to no avail. Wherever he was, he surely wasn’t interested in making it easy on you to find him.

A sigh left you as you started toward the back of the library where a couple tables rested behind a few conveniently placed bookcases. Unfortunately, the feeling in your stomach told you that he surely would be sitting at one of those tables, simply because you knew how his dirty, little mind worked.

That corner of the library was…infamous for its concealed nature. Everyone in Hogwarts had heard the little rumors that fluttered about, of couples getting a bit too friendly with each other while the librarian was downstairs.

Because of those rumors, it had garnered a reputation. And if someone who had a penchant for gossip slipped past you and Theodore Nott studying back there, you’d be screwed.

Once you passed the last book case, zigzagging between the three that formed the perfect labyrinth, you came upon Theo comfortably waiting at the table in the middle. A groan of defeat left you and your head dipped back. You stared at the ceiling for a few moments while contemplating your options—you could still run away.

“Hello, beautiful,” Theo said, leaning his chin down on his propped up fists. “I’ve been waiting so impatiently for you.”

“Whatever,” you sighed. You crossed over to the table and sat across from him—the farthest away you could get. Your bag collapsed to the ground and unzipped itself on the way down. The things you needed for this assignment floated out and landed neatly on the table before you, including a few rolls of parchment, a quill and ink, and your books.

He marveled silently, seemingly trying to hide his fascination at your wandless magic. Perhaps if he studied as hard as you did, he would also be able to achieve it.

“Alright, shall we do this?” you asked, maintaining a bored expression.

“I’d love to,” he smirked. “But I’d love to showcase a bit of my magic as well, if that’s alright with you?”

“What—?” Your voice was cut off with a slight gasp as all four legs of your chair lifted off of the ground. Your fingers wrapped around the sides of your seat to keep you from slipping off.

Theo’s eyes followed your chair as it floated over the table and all the way beside him. Once your shoulders were inches from his, your chair dropped a few centimeters to the ground. A small yelp came from you as you regained your balance and glared at him. Perhaps he was a better wizard than you thought.

“What the hell, Theo?” you demanded, immediately scooting your chair away from him, putting a good few inches between you.

“I just thought we’d be able to work better closer together,” he purred, his arm dropping against the table to cage you against him and the bookshelf a bit to your left. You eased away from him so you were closer to the shelves than you were to him. His eyes never dropped from yours. “Merlin, what is that smell? You smell absolutely divine—”

“Okay, let’s just get this done,” you interrupted him, pushing his approaching body back away from you.

“Mm, alright,” he smiled. “Have you decided on a topic you’re interested in presenting on?”

“Actually, I have.” You pulled your books across the table over to where the two of you were sitting, flipping everything to the appropriate page. There were a couple pages in your notebook where you’d jotted some ideas down earlier today, and you’d figured he’d want to see the different ideas, as it was his grade, as well. “So, I threw a couple of ideas together in my fourth period. We can see what you think of them…”

As you explained the details of all of your ideas, it became increasingly obvious that Theo was not at all interested in what you had to say about the project. Though you refused to look directly at him, the corner of your eyes granted more than enough knowledge.

Theo’s eyes were ravenous as they drew down your body, curving across the most private areas of your curves with no shame. You could feel your cheeks burning, but hoped the warm tones from the candles around you would conceal that.

When he scooted a bit closer to you, you kept talking. And when he laid his arm across the back of your chair, you kept talking. And when his fingers began to toy with the ends of your hair, you kept talking. But when he took your quill gently from your fingers and set it down on the table, you finally stopped. You barely made eye contact with him, constantly glancing away and down to the table. You could feel your heartbeat in your ears.

His fingers pulled away from your hair and dropped to your shoulder. They squeezed the hard muscles a few times.

“God, you seem tense,” he spoke lowly, his voice barely above a whisper. His other hand reached up and matched the opposite’s position on your other shoulder.

When he placed a gentle amount of pressure, it expressed a small sigh from your lips. He was right. You were very tense—in general, but especially around him.

“Here, let me…,” he stood and appeared behind you rather quickly.

“Theo, I don’t think this is appropriate. I’d really just—” Your voice cut off as soon as he began to roll your taut muscles beneath his nimble fingers. Your eyes fluttered shut at the sensation, pleasurable jolts of pain shocking across your neck and down your back.

“That’s okay, baby,” he whispered, dangerously close to your ear. “Finish telling me about your idea. I’ll just loosen some things up back here. Fuck, you’re so tight.”

He pressed an especially hard drive against your skin. You bit back a moan at the sensation. You don’t think you’d ever had a better massage in your life.

You wanted to tell him to stop, but it felt so fucking good. And you really were sore around your neck and shoulders.

“Theo?” you tried again.

“Read.” His voice had a commanding tone to it. One hand released your shoulder briefly to grab your books and slide them closer to you, before returning to its position against your skin.

His hands worked their way up around your jaw, cupping it gently, so he could press his thumbs against the back of your neck. You audibly sighed this time without intending to. Embarrassed, you attempted to cover it up with a clear of your throat.

You began to explain the rest of your project plan, small shudders rippling through your voice every time he’d hit an especially sore spot.

By the time he finished and pulled his hands away from you, your body was mourning the loss of him but relishing in the relief it felt. It honestly hadn’t felt far off from a professional massage.

“How’s that?” He walked around to your side, still not sitting back down.

“Er, good,” you chuckled nervously, rubbing your hand along the back of your neck, trying to spread the relief around.

“Perfect,” he smiled, gently swiping his index finger beneath your chin. He sat back down beside you.

“So, what do you think?” you asked.

“About what?”

“The project idea…”

“Oh, yeah, I think it’s wonderful,” he said, shrugging a bit. “I think we can work with it.”

“Theo, did you even listen?” you asked, rolling your eyes.

“Of course, I did,” he chuckled. “It’s just not easy to focus when you have such a gorgeous partner.”

There went your cheeks getting insanely hot again. He thought you were gorgeous? There was no way. Someone must have put him up to this, right? Or he was fucking with you because he knew you had had a bit of a crush on him.

“I—er…” you stuttered hopelessly, pulling your eyes away from his.

He placed a hand on your knee. You could feel the warmth of his skin through your tights. The heartbeat in your ears picked up wildly.

“Don’t be nervous around me.”

“What?” you laughed suddenly. “I’m not nervous, I’m just—you’re just really…friendly? I don’t know. Why are you pretending to be so interested in me? Did someone put you up to it?”

“Why would someone have put me up to flirting with you?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Because they know I had a thing for you,” you blurted before thinking. “I mean—”

“Nope! Can’t take it back now, my love.” Theo chuckled, an evil smirk printing across his lips. “And, for the record, no one put me up to flirting with you. I just want to.”

His hand slid up to the top of your knee as he leaned a bit forward.

“Theo!” you hissed. “We’re in the library—you can’t do that.” Though you verbally protested his actions, you couldn’t deny the heat building in your stomach at his touch.

Despite the conviction you had for needing to decline him and all of his advances, you couldn’t seem to suppress the need you felt for him right now—a different kind. His eyes remained on yours and refused to look away.

The two of you were in the library, and had seemed to despise each other’s company only minutes earlier, but for some reason, you couldn’t force yourself to stop his rising hand.

Soon, his fingers were toying with the edge of your skirt and his lips were millimeters from your own. You could feel his gentle breath against your cheeks.

“Theo…,” you shuddered at his proximity. His thumb slid slowly down the side of your thigh, the contact eliciting chills along your legs.

“You’ve wanted me for months,” he murmured, lips brushing against yours. “Are you finally going to let me fuck you?”

You gasped slightly as the tip of his thumb just barely brushed your core through your panties.

“Say yes, or I’m not going to touch you anymore.”

As if on cue, his hands pulled back from you and his mouth seemed to hover a few inches away. The cold air hit the spot his hand had been occupying on your thigh and sent a row of shivers up your spine.

“I don’t understand. Is this a joke?” you shuddered.

He shook his head slowly. “Not a joke, I just want you. Say yes, baby.”

“Y—” before you were even able to get the singular syllable out, his lips were pressing against yours and devouring them like a predator.

His hand found its place against your thigh again, the other hand following suit on the other one. He pushed them up the expanse of your skin, inching your skirts up in the process.

You moaned against his lips in embarrassment at the sudden loss of dignity.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he sighed against your mouth. “Let me taste you.” He pressed his lips roughly back to yours.

You gasped for air and pulled away, noses brushing against the other. “Say please,” you managed to choke out.”

“What?”

“Say please,” you repeated. “What, did you think I was going to come here and just give you whatever you wanted?”

“Oh, that’s how you’re going to be?” he smirked. You stared back astutely, not yielding to any teasing he tried to give.

“Alright, baby,” he conceded. He pulled himself closer to you and worked his way up your neck and to your ear, pressing chaste kisses against your flesh. “Please let me taste this sweet cunt. ‘ve been dreaming about it for months.”

You shivered at his words before nodding. You weren’t in your right mind—you couldn’t be.

He slid out of his chair and dropped to his knees. His hands wrapped around your hips and yanked you to the edge of the seat. His fingers pushed your skirt up around your hips and angled you up toward his face, pulling your legs over each of his shoulders.

The cool air flushed against the hot wetness slathered across your thighs. But the shock of wintry air was canceled out quickly by Theo’s hot mouth placing against your clothed core.

Your head fell back against the chair as your hands flew to his honeyed curls.

He swirled his lips across you, gathering your lust on his tongue. Each time you let a little moan slip, he’d echo you with his own louder one. It wasn’t loud enough to be heard anywhere else in the library, but it was enough to vibrate against you and send your head spinning.

The second your thighs began to shake on either side of his sharp jaw, he pulled away from you, leaving you bare and wanting.

“Turn around,” he panted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Obstinately, you held your chin up and refused to obey him. You wanted to appear strong and resistant as payment for how much of a dick he’d been to you, but with your quivering lips and legs still spread wide for him, you figured you didn’t quite get the point across.

He suddenly grabbed your jaw in one hand, while undoing his belt buckle with the other. Anticipation boiled in your belly.

“Turn around,” he said before suddenly and mockingly tilting his head to the side. “Or do you not understand what’s good for you?”

When you said nothing, he pulled you out of the chair and bent you over the library table. You yelped as your chest collided with the table.

Once on your stomach, he flipped your skirt over against your back and ripped your panties and stockings down your legs until the soaked things were stuck around your ankles.

Then, without another warning, he was sliding into you and stretching you wide. You gasped aloud and gripped at the smooth table, begging to find purchase on anything.

He moaned slightly at the way you clenched around him. He pushed himself into you a little more with each slow thrust, the movement splitting you down the middle. His hands held you tightly in place by your hips, pinning you down against the table.

“Shit, you feel fucking perfect,” he moaned, fingers gripping into your flesh.

Every alarm bell was ringing in your head, telling you to separate and cover yourselves, because you were in public. But, for some reason, you found yourself loving the thrill of possibly being walked in on; of possibly being found with Theodore Nott buried deep inside of you, taking his pleasure from your body.

By the time he’d finally bottomed out inside of you, he was panting and willing himself not to come prematurely.

“I’ve never felt anything this tight,” he groaned.

You hadn’t been able to see the size of him before he started pushing into you, but you had to guess he was the biggest you’d ever felt. Just having his hips pressed to your ass felt like the tip of him was brushing your cervix.

“Ah, fuck, wait,” he said, panting heavily. He rubbed your back as he slowly pulled all the way out of you and stood you up. He turned you around to face him and laid your back against the table.

He brought your legs around him and you hooked them together behind his back. You watched him with deep admiration as his fingers stroked up and down your legs, preparing to explain what he wanted.

“I want to watch me fill you up,” he whispered, leaning down to press a slow kiss to your lips. It was sweet and thick with saliva but, despite everything else he’d done so far, this set off a flurry of butterflies in your stomach.

His hands came away from your legs and wrapped around your waist. He watched addictively as his fingers curled entirely around your body, his large hands positively dwarfing your small frame. And you could’ve sworn you saw his eyes fill with an inky, black glint as he brought his hips to the underside of your thighs.

He placed his dick on your stomach, reveling in how far up your stomach it went. He moaned at the sight and pulled your right leg up and over his shoulder. He pressed a small kiss to the side of your calf.

“Theo,” you whined, still reeling from the loss of him inside of you. “Please, no more teasing.”

“Be patient, baby,” he whispered against your leg. “I want to remember this moment.”

“Theo,” you urged once more. But his hand came down hard against the outer side of your thigh. You yelped at the pain that radiated down the side of your leg.

“I said to be patient.” He soothed the pain gently with his fingers, still looking down at how big he looked compared to you.

One of the things he’d always had on you was height. No matter if the things he said were stupid and undermining, you couldn’t deny that his size was enough to have the high ground.

“Look, we don’t have all the time in the world,” you sighed, leaning up on your elbows to speak with him. “The librarian could walk in here at any—”

He pushed back into you, choking any other words in your throat. You gasped and fell back against the wooden table, the cold lacquer biting into your flesh.

“Fuck,” Theo all but whined. He pressed his fingers against your lower abdomen where his dick had created a perfect impression. Every time he pulled out then pushed back in, his sheer size forced the body wall up and simultaneously probed a spot inside of you that had your eyes rolling backward.

Without wasting another second, he picked up his pace while dropping his hands down to your still-tucked in uniform shirt. He ripped the material out from beneath the waistband of your skirt, and ripped the buttons apart.

The candles floating overhead illuminated the curves and dips of your stomach, highlighting the valley of your breasts.

Hips still pistoning into you, and left hand holding your waist still, his right hand reached forward again and ripped the clip of your bra apart. Luckily, you’d worn the front access one today.

At the force of the destruction, your breasts fell apart from one another, bouncing against your dampened chest.

“Fuck,” he growled. “Gonna mark this beautiful body. Gonna let everyone know you’re mine. My girl.”

His words sent shockwaves through your system. You tried to reach for him but you couldn’t reach. Your arms fell back down against the table, your lack of anything to hold on to leaving you completely at the mercy of the pace he decided to set.

“T-Theo,” you stuttered, your voice breaking beneath the weight of his abuse.

He leaned down, pushing himself all the way into you for a moment, and latched his lips around a mouthful of your left breast. He sucked roughly on the flesh, pulling the blood to the surface. You whined through the pain that mingled with the pleasure from him below.

Once he was satisfied with the bruise painted on you, he moved toward your neck, sucking and biting just as rough, hips never halting.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered. “Tell me how it feels.” He nibbled on your earlobe.

You said nothing, your lips unable to form enough to make any words come out. Your fingers still gripped uselessly at the sides of the table. One leg was held uselessly over Theo’s shoulder while the other dangled limply over the edge of the table.

He leaned up. “Tell me how it feels, baby.”

Still, you made no sound.

“Oh, you pathetic thing,” he whispered, lips pressing to your elevated leg once again. “Am I fucking you stupid? Is that what it is? Yeah, baby? Next time, I’ll shove this dick down your throat and see how quiet you are then, you dumb slut.”

Now, within the final moments before your finish, his thumb dropped to your clit and began to rub small circles into the nerves. Your mouth fell open and your back arched to the ceiling as his hips intensified. They forced your finish closer and closer until you were spilling all over him, coating your legs and his stomach.

At the clenching of your core, his release was barreling forward, as well. He came with a long groan and a slow walk down of the brutal pace he’d set with his hips. His spend, mixed with yours, dripped down your legs.

Finally, with him still inside of you, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to yours. He eyed you sweetly, caressing soothing lines across your temple with his thumb.

“My sweet girl, you did so well,” he whispered against your lips. “Has anyone else ever fucked you so well?” There was that cocky Theo again.

“Maybe like one other person,” you gasped, trying to catch your breath.

“Oh, yeah? Who?” he asked, suddenly grabbing your jaw again and forcing you to look directly at him.

“Hmm, I’m not sure,” you said. “I think I forgot his name. I’ll probably just forget yours tomorrow, too.” You teased him meanly, smirk building on your lips. This was further payback for all the months of harassment you’d dealt with from him.

He pinched your cheeks together until your lips were pushed open.

“You can forget my name, sweetheart,” he whispered roughly, “but you’ll never forget what I just did to this body.”

His eyes watched yours with an intensity like no other. Then his lips pursed, and you watched as a line of spit dropped into your waiting mouth. It was the ultimate display of humiliation, but also ownership. You belonged to Theo, now.

And even if you forced yourself to forget his name or this day in the library, you’d never wipe the taste of his claim out of your mouth.

“Now, let’s get to work on that attitude, shall we?” Theo asked, voice suddenly chipper again.

He pulled out of you and zipped his pants back up, before selecting his bag off of the chair—which you’d now noticed he hadn’t even unpacked.

“Tomorrow at 6?” he asked.

Then he Disapparated, leaving you entirely exposed and alone.

That son of a bitch.

- - -

Tag List:

@lilymurphy03 , @mypolicemanharryyy , @angelfrombeneth , @clairesjointshurt , @bunbunbl0gs , @acornacreacure, @niktwazny303 , @thestarlithideout, @sarahskakskskskajakwwnwjw , @yhiiil , @xxrougefangxx , @thatblackthorn , @robinyx , @starsval , @jolly4holly , @blvebanisters , @chgrch , @ilovehotmenandwoman , @smutnyrobocikwrakiecie , @synicaljah , @abaker74

[cherrybr4t]

fake enemies — jeonghan (+18, mdni)

💋 hate each others guts? more like rearranging your guts.

WARNINGS: smut, public sex (car), unprotected sex, creampie, slight degradation terms (from hannie)—that’s it!!! 😱

“good lord, not again.”

your fellow team members collectively sighed, with a few unappreciated comments thrown under their breaths.

pacing around the room, you rolled your eyes, hands gripping your hips—huffing and puffing your annoyance to the direction of the man mirroring your frown across the room, with his arms crossed.

“why can’t the both of you just—i don’t know, not even get along but, coexist peacefully like—for once?” joshua’s exasperated tone throws you off a little. he’s not one to usually express frustration in a professional setting; if you can even call your current predicament a ‘professional setting’.

you look away from jeonghan’s pointed look fixated on you. hmm, did you and him push it too far this time?

joshua clasps his hands over his mouth, rubbing his chin “whatever—just, as long as we get this project completed. let’s hold back for 3 more weeks, all right? please,” you start to feel bad at how everyone’s starting to lose their patience with you and jeonghan.

with a saccharine smile, you pressed your nails hard against your palms, “i’ll need a second with you, Jeonghan—if you don’t mind,” your thumb pointing towards the door. “it’ll just be a short minute.” you reassured.

smirking, he walked towards you, “sure,” before turning towards the table of committee members looking intently, and then glancing at joshua.

“why yes—take more precious time out of our meeting to have yet another conversation which we all know will lead to nowhere, go ahead, guys—be my guests,” joshua shrugs and lifts his hands up in a surrender pose.

ignoring him, you walk out with jeonghan scurrying behind you. the minute you and him can’t be seen behind the door, your head snaps left and right to check if the hallways are clear.

jeonghan grabs your face to pull you in for a dragged out peck on the lips. you gasp.

“hannie! i was still on the lookout, what if someone saw us?” you swat away his hands that were tenderly gripping your cheeks. his previous smirk all gone, now replaced with the softest smile that drags his cheeks up so high, teeth gently biting his lower lip as he just stares at you lovingly.

“stop looking at me like that!”

“what? is it a crime now to admire my girlfriend? my absolutely gorgeous beautiful stunning girlfriend?” he probes, poking your left cheek playfully.

“…no…”

“so? it’s already tough enough acting like i don’t wanna just bend you over right then and there inside that room, let me be baby,” he leans in again to give you another sweet kiss on the lips, and you capitulate. who are you to resist your beautiful boyfriend’s kiss anyway.

“wait no stop, let me get to my point first, before joshua comes out looking for us,” you spit out, a little out of breath as you pull away. jeonghan nods patronisingly, unbothered, just thinking about how adorable you are.

“i think we’re dragging this out too much hannie, seems like everyone is getting sick of how we keep ‘fighting’, your fingers acting out apostrophes in the air. “should we just come clean? i’m starting to feel bad..”

“anything you want baby, told you i was all right with them knowing from the start,” jeonghan holds down your shoulders reassuringly. “but i have to admit, the sneaking around has been pretty fun, especially when i get to have you all fucked out for me, and no one seems to be able to tell,” he chuckles.

you bite your lip in deep thought, “…one last sneaking around before we tell them the truth?”

“i looove the way your mind works baby,” jeonghan as eager as ever, heads back inside first, to let joshua know he’s gotta blow off some air, maybe get a smoke or two—and joshua lets his best friend cool off in his own fashion.

you head in a few minutes after, citing that you need a cool down as well, heading to get some coffee and maybe some fresh air. joshua shakes his head but gives in—it’s what he’s used to, and he knows that allowing you both to have a cool down always works; he just doesn’t know what exactly constitutes a cool down for the both of you.

you know where baby

in 10

you walk to the back entrance’s drive through of the campus, spotting jeonghan’s car parked right at the end, covered by huge trees and no other cars in sight.

the minute you climb in, you’re immediately met with your boyfriend’s eager lips, down the side of your neck as he grips your hair so tight you gasp.

“at the back baby,”

like clockwork, you both save time by removing articles of clothing while climbing to the back of his black sedan, spacious and soon to smell like sex and sweat.

you hover over his lap, lips clashing so messily with his.

“want you to ride me today baby,” jeonghan rubs at your clit messily, but with him, you don’t need much to be soaking wet. your cunt is always ready to take him in any time of the day and he knows it.

still, he likes a testament of the effect he has on you. he slides two fingers in, wiggling and scissoring to pump it wider, getting it ready for him.

“my baby is always so fuckin’ ready to take my cock, like my personal slut—i love it,” he whispers as his hazy eyes fixate on you and how you whimper, how you ride his fingers so full of zest.

“hmmph hannie, wanna ride you,” you rub at his cock standing so tall and proud, the precum dripping down his veiny member making you light-headed.

he grabs onto your hips and slides you down his cock slowly, and the immediate clench he feels makes him moan so wantonly. the sheer pleasure of just having your walls wrapped around him is enough for him to feel like he’s on the verge of collapsing.

you grab onto his shoulders, and start giving him all you’ve got, holding on for dear life as you work your hips. “gonna ride you ti-til’ you’re cummin’ inside me hanniee,”

he chuckles darkly, your sweet voice uttering such words to him makes him feral, and he hums—delighted, knowing only he brings out this side of you.

“go ahead baby, remind me what a good slut you are for me,” he leans back, hands still playing with your tits lazily.

jeonghan loves to sit back and watch you try to take control, how you try your very best to please him at all times. “that’s it baby, so pretty, you know that? know how pretty you look riding me baby?” his angel—of course—deserves praises for being so good for him.

you get lost in the feeling of his inches filling every crevice of your silky walls, and how his hand starts to creep up to your neck, going from a gentle grab to a tighter one.

moans and hot breaths fill up his car and so do sounds of skin slapping—resounding the small space that reeks of sex and jeonghan.

he drags you down by your neck to give you yet another sweet kiss, gliding his tongue over your lips before playing with yours. his eyes—he looks at you ever so lovingly as he always does with a flicker of sensuality.

“fuck baby—keep going, i’m gonna cum soon, pussy too good baby,” jeonghan groans out as he notices the same fucked out look you have when you’re about to cum around him.

giving you the final push, he tightens his grip around your neck, whispering to your ear, “cum for me, my pretty pretty girl, i know it’s there, just need you to cum for me before i fill you—”

and your legs tremble as your coil snaps, cunt clenching him so fucking tight, your scream increasing in pitch at each spurt of cum you release—creaming his cock.

jeonghan curses, pushing you up and down his cock a few more times, “fuckfuckfuck—i’m cumming,” his eyebrows furrow and he lets out the neediest moan, dragging it out as he paints your pink walls with the thickest coat of cum and you moan—feeling him load you up with his creamy cum.

“ngghh so full hannie, your cum feels so good in me,” you lay your head on his shoulder, catching your breath.

he holds you there for a few minutes, finding comfort in the warmth of your bodies intertwined.

you remind him that you both will have to head back to the meeting room—with a rather annoyed joshua waiting. he laughs, decides that he wants to stay a while more—not moving, skin to skin with you.

happy hannie day 💋 need a simpy needy hannie to ride too :((

[ducksido]

Hi! I wanted to request a fic with Jade. Perhaps one where Yuu/The reader is starting to avoid Jade because their friends(the first years) have doubts about his intentions and whether he is sincere or not, seen as the tweels walking red flags. So Jade's partner wants to kind of break it off with him, because they are getting insecure and think that they're being played with and only seen as 'fun' for a short time which will get dropped later on when he gets bored, and Jade notices. How would he react and would he try to save his relationship and how? (Some other plot is fine too!)

Thanks a lot!

(Lowkey was debating how to go with this request if i wanted it angst or not and ended up with this)

“You're Not Just Amusement to Me”

Jade wasn’t oblivious. Far from it.

He noticed the hesitation in your step before you entered the Mostro Lounge now. The slight turn of your shoulder when he reached to brush his fingers along your back. How your laughter, once genuine, had become thin and polite. How your eyes darted to Ace and Deuce during lunch, searching them for silent confirmation whenever Jade spoke to you.

He didn’t need to ask. Jade could smell doubt. It clung to the edges of your words like brine on seaweed.

He smiled anyway. He always did.

But deep beneath that calm, gloved exterior, something ancient and sharp stirred in the deep currents of his heart.

You didn’t mean to pull away. Not at first.

You had tried to ignore it. Tried to drown out the words the others kept echoing, like waves lapping against the same weak rock:

“You really trust him?” “C’mon, it’s Jade. He’s always messing with people.” “I mean, the guy makes people eat mushrooms for fun.” “Doesn’t it ever feel like… you’re just a passing hobby to him?”

And what scared you most was that a part of you—a tiny, hollow part—started to wonder the same.

Was that all you were? A curiosity? A ‘pet project’ to pass the time?

Because he was beautiful. Mysterious. Clever. And you were just… you. Someone who fell too fast. Felt too much. Who reached out with your whole heart like it wouldn’t be snapped shut in a bear trap.

You couldn’t help but feel like you were the one playing a dangerous game with someone who had never even told you the rules.

So lately, you’d been keeping your distance. Less texts. Less touches. You even skipped your daily visits to the Lounge.

It was only fair to give him space before he dropped you first.

It was a cool evening when Jade cornered you. Outside the greenhouse. Of course it was. That was his sanctuary, his temple of stillness and secrets.

“Ah. Prefect.” His voice was low and quiet. Gentle. Too gentle.

You froze mid-step, hands curled around the straps of your bag. “...Hey.”

Jade tilted his head, eyes gleaming beneath the low moonlight. “I noticed you haven’t been stopping by. I was beginning to think you’d grown tired of me.”

Your stomach twisted.

He always knew what to say. That was the problem.

“I’ve just been… busy,” you said lamely.

“With classes?” he prompted.

“With… thinking,” you admitted. And it just tumbled out, ugly and breathless. “Thinking if this is—if we’re even real. Or if I was just something new to keep you entertained.”

The silence that followed felt too long. Like the sea had stilled.

“I see,” Jade said at last. “So the whispers have finally reached you.”

You blinked. “What—?”

“Ace. Deuce. Jack, Epel… Even Sebek. All fond of you in their own ways, but terribly uncreative. I could tell from the moment they started glaring harder during lunch.”

“…You knew?”

“I’m not blind, Prefect,” he said softly. “Nor am I so dull as to miss the shift in your gaze. I simply hoped you trusted me enough to ignore them.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

He stepped forward. Not looming—never looming—but near enough for you to smell that faint foresty tang of earth and old water.

“I won’t lie to you,” he continued. “There was a time when your presence did… amuse me. Your reactions were delightful. So quick to fluster. So stubborn when teased. But it didn’t take long for my curiosity to turn into affection.”

You looked away. “And what happens when that amusement fades?”

He said nothing. Just reached out—slow, careful—and gently touched your cheek with the back of his knuckles.

“When I enjoy something,” he said, “I cultivate it. Tend to it. Study it. Care for it so that it thrives. That is my nature. I have no intention of abandoning what I cherish.”

“Even if I’m just… ordinary?”

He smiled. But not the usual sly, calculated one. This one was soft. Honest. And maybe a little sad.

“You are anything but ordinary to me, Yuu.”

You shivered. Maybe from the wind. Maybe from hearing your name in that rare, raw tone of his.

He pulled his hand back. Respectful. Distant, if you wanted it. “But I won’t force you to stay. If you’ve truly decided I’m not worth the risk, then I will let you go. But I will grieve. Quietly, perhaps. But deeply.”

You stared at him, heart thudding like the heavy pulse of a ship’s engine underwater.

“…Do you even get scared?” you asked softly. “That maybe this could fall apart? That I could leave you?”

Jade’s gaze flickered.

“Yes,” he said.

That startled you.

“I do not love easily,” he murmured, “but when I do, it is… consuming. I can picture a hundred ways this could end badly. But I still chose you. And I will choose you again, if you’ll let me.”

A beat of silence.

Then you stepped into him. Slowly. Carefully. Like testing the water again after nearly drowning.

Your hands found the fabric of his uniform jacket. His hands hovered above your back, uncertain, until you nodded—just once—and he held you.

You stayed there a long time. Just breathing.

“…Do you want me to talk to them?” he asked eventually. “The first years?”

You snorted. “What, scare them into silence?”

“I was thinking more… a demonstration of sincerity.” He smiled slyly against your hair. “Maybe I’ll let them see how flustered you make me.”

You chuckled, nudging him. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple, “you’re still here.”

Bonus (the next day)

Ace: “Hey, Yuu, you good? You’ve been quiet since lunch.”

Yuu: “Jade came over to the Ramshackle garden this morning. With a picnic.”

Deuce: “A picnic??”

Epel: “Aw, that’s kinda cute—wait. Did he give you mushrooms?”

Yuu: “No. He just told me the Latin names of flowers and how each one reminded him of me.”

Jack: “…He’s weird. But… maybe he does like you.”

Sebek: “Hmph. Still don’t trust him.”

Yuu: “I do.”

And that was the end of it.

[d1stalker]

No Right [Logan Howlett]

Summary: Logan’s fierce desire to protect you leads to a heated confrontation.

Warnings: Logan is emotionally constipated, arguing, making out up

WC: 2.6k - MASTERLIST

----

You pace the room, tension crackling in the air as Logan stands by the doorway, arms crossed, jaw clenched tight. His eyes follow your every movement, a storm brewing in their depths. You can feel the weight of his gaze, the unspoken words hanging between you like a heavy fog.

“Logan,” you start, your voice sharp as you finally stop and face him, “What the hell is your problem?”

“My problem?” he growls, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming. “My problem is that you’re not going on this mission. I won't allow it.”

The room was packed with the team gathered around the large table as Charles went over the details of a particularly dangerous mission. You sat near the end, listening intently, your focus on the map projected on the screen. Logan was beside you, silent but tense, his usual composed demeanor fraying at the edges.

"And you'll be going in as a team, coordinated and precise," Charles was saying, his voice calm and measured as always. "The success of this mission depends on each of you playing your part. Logan, you'll be leading the assault."

Logan's jaw tightened at that, his eyes narrowing. "And her?" he asked, jerking his head toward you, almost aggressively .

You blinked, surprised by the sudden sharpness in his tone. "I'm going in as support," you replied, though you could feel the tension starting to rise in the room.

Logan's fists clenched on the table, his knuckles white. "You shouldn’t be going at all," he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The room fell silent, all eyes turning to the two of you. You felt a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck, but you forced yourself to hold your ground. "Logan, I’m capable of handling this," you said firmly with a hint of the anger starting to simmer beneath the surface.

Logan shot up from his chair, his voice a low growl as he spoke.

"You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t some game!”

You frowned in confusion and hurt– this had never been a game. You’ve always been strong, and able to hold your own against threats. Where was this coming from?

Everyone in the room waited with bated breaths, curious to see how the rest of the scene would play out. Charles frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Logan, your concerns are noted, but this mission requires all hands on deck. We’ve discussed this."

But Logan wasn’t listening anymore. He shook his head, anger radiating off him in waves.

"You’re all insane if you think I’m letting her go out there. Not a chance."

And with that, he stormed out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. You sat there for a moment, processing what had just happened, before you got up and followed him, your heart pounding in your chest.

You found him outside, leaning against the wall, his back to you, shoulders heaving with barely contained rage. "Logan," you called out, your voice softer now, "You can’t do this."

He didn’t turn around, but you could hear the tightness in his tone. "I’m not letting you go, okay? I can’t."

"You don’t have the right to make that decision for me," you decided, stepping closer, trying to reach him through the wall of anger he’d built around himself. "I’m part of this team, and I’m going to do my part."

Finally, Logan turned to face you, his eyes blazing. "You don’t understand, alright? I’ve lost too many people. I’ve lost everything. I can’t lose you too."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. But then you stepped closer, a slight tremble in your voice, trying to make sense of what he was saying”

But what about everyone else on the team? Hank? Scott? I’m not the only one at risk here."

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours for something, anything, that might convince him. But before you could say anything else, he shook his head, frustration etched into every line of his face. "I can’t," he whispered, and then he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, the weight of his words heavy on your heart.

For the next few days leading to the mission, he’d avoided you, barely saying a word, his silence like a knife twisting in your chest. Every time you entered a room, he’d walk right out–right past you–like you didn't exist. But you couldn’t let it end like that. So here you were, the night before operation, cornering him in the place he couldn’t escape, his room, demanding the truth.

Back in the present, the memory fades, but the emotions it brought with it linger, heavy and raw, the sting of his words hitting you harder than you’d like to admit.

"Why?" you question. He's never been against you going on a mission before.

Logan sighs, you can tell he's already losing his patience. "It's too dangerous."

You almost flinch back in offense. “Are you doubting me?” your voice is level, but it still carries all the hurt you’re feeling.

“It’s not about doubting you,” Logan snaps, running a hand through his hair, the frustration evident. “It’s about keeping you safe.”

“Safe?” You scoff, anger beginning to rise to the surface. “You think I can’t handle myself? That I’m weak?”

“That’s not what I—” Logan starts, but you cut him off.

“Then what, Logan? What is it? You’ve always trusted me before. What’s different now?” Your hands clench into fists at your sides, trying to keep your emotions in check. “Do you think I’ve suddenly forgotten how to fight?”

“No,” he retorts, his voice rising. “But this mission is different. We’re going into the unknown, and I won’t let you get hurt because I couldn’t protect you.”

“I don’t need you to protect me!” you fire back, your own voice increasing in volume to match his. “I’m not some damsel in distress! I’m part of this team, just like you. I’ve trained, I’ve fought, and I’ve survived, just like you!”

He tilts his head back, dragging his hands down his face in exasperation. “That’s not the point! You don’t understand what it’s like to see the person you care about most—” He stops himself, biting back the rest of the sentence, but the implication of his words hangs heavy.

However, you don’t seem to acknowledge it--unable to process his words in the midst of your rage.

“Then make me understand! Because all I see right now is you trying to control me, to make decisions for me like I’m some fragile little girl who can’t stand on her own.”

Logan’s eyes flash with anger and desperation. “You think I’m trying to control you? You think this is easy for me? Watching you walk into danger, knowing I might not be able to protect you, knowing I could lose you?” The words crack as they leave his mouth, and he takes a sharp breath, his chest heaving.

“I—” He hesitates, his usual confidence faltering. “I can’t lose you,” he reluctantly admits, like the words are being dragged out of him against his will.

You blink, taken aback. “What?”

“Dammit,” Logan mutters under his breath, his frustration reaching a breaking point. In a flash, he closes the distance between you, grabbing your arms and pushing you back until your spine hits the wall. The air is knocked from your lungs as you’re pinned between the cold surface and the heat radiating off him.

“I care about you, alright?” he growls, his face inches from yours, eyes blazing with an intensity that makes your heart race. “More than I should. And it’s driving me insane because I don’t know how to deal with it.”

“Logan…” You try to speak, but whatever you were going to say is caught in your throat, the raw emotion in his voice and the feel of his grip on you leaving you breathless.

“The thought of you going on this mission, of you getting hurt, or worse—” He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath in order to collect his thoughts. “I can’t handle it. I’ve lost too many people, and if something happens to you, I won’t survive it.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, torn between the anger that still simmers and the overwhelming feelings his confession brings. “So you’re pushing me away?” you manage to get out. “Trying to protect me by hurting me?”

His grip on your arms tightens, but not painfully—just enough to hold you in place, to make sure you’re listening.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he says, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “I’m trying to protect you because I care about you, because you mean something to me, and that scares the hell out of me." His gaze bores into yours, "You’re not weak, you’re not incapable—but if something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.”

You can see the anguish in his eyes, the way he’s battling with himself, caught between his instinct to protect and the reality of the situation. Your chest aches at the sight, your frustration dissolving as you realize just how deep his feelings for you run.

“Logan,” you say softly, reaching up to place a hand on his cheek. The gesture is gentle, meant to calm him, to show him that you’re not going to leave him, that nothing will happen to you. “I’m not going anywhere. You have to trust me.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, leaning into your touch as if drawing strength from it. When he opens them again, the anger has faded, replaced by a vulnerability you’ve rarely seen in him.

“I do trust you,” he murmurs. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not scared shitless”

Exhaling deeply, some of the tension leaves his body as he releases your arms, his hands lingering on your shoulders before sliding down to hold your hands. “Don’t get hurt,” he says.

For the first time since the argument started, a small, tentative smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “This isn't my first rodeo, Howlett.”

Logan chuckles, a deep, rich sound that seems to ease the remaining tension. “Never said it was,” he says, his voice softer now, though the intensity in his eyes remains. “Just… be safe, okay? I won’t be able to have my eyes on you at all times”

You nod, feeling a warmth blossom within you that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the man standing in front of you. “I will. I promise.”

Then, without a word, he pulls you into his arms, holding you close as if he’s afraid to let go. The warmth of his body surrounds you, and you can feel yourself slowly relax as you wrap your arms around his broad back, burying your face in his chest. His heartbeat thunders beneath your ear, a steady rhythm that grounds you in the quiet aftermath of the storm.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. Just holding each other, the room silent except for the sound of your breathing and the faint rustle of clothing as he tightens his embrace, pulling you impossibly closer. The earlier anger, the fear, all of it disappears, leaving only the comforting presence of him against you, solid and real.

“I’m sorry,” Logan mumbles into your hair, sincerity coating his tone. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” you whisper back, your fingers tracing soothing circles on his back. 

He nods against you, then he lets out a long, weary sigh. Almost reluctantly, he pulls back just enough to look down at you, his eyes searching yours for reassurance. When he finds it, his expression softens, and he dips his head to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, pausing there for a moment before his lips brush against your temple.

The tenderness of the gesture shoots throughout your body, straight to your heart, and you tilt your head up slightly, meeting his gaze. Without thinking, you lean up and capture his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s a gentle exchange, a promise, and an apology all at once, the final remnants of the fight ebbing away as his lips move against yours.

Logan deepens the kiss, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, holding you close as he pours everything he can’t say into the kiss. You respond in kind, your arms tightening around him, losing yourself in the feel of him, the taste of him. Your lips part instinctively, allowing his tongue to slip into your mouth, the kiss becoming filled with even more need, more urgency.

Every touch, every breath shared between you ignites something primal, something that’s been simmering beneath the surface for far too long. Logan pulls you even closer, his other hand sliding down your back, gripping your waist as he presses you against him. It’s like he’s trying to imprint this moment, this connection, into his very soul.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathless, your foreheads resting together as you try to catch your breath. His eyes are dark, filled with a desire that mirrors your own, and his thumb gently strokes your cheek as if grounding himself.

“Stay with me tonight,” he whispers.

You nod, your heart swelling with emotion as you give him a small, reassuring smile. “I was hoping you’d ask that.”

He pulls you into another embrace, and this time, he guides you both toward the bed, his movements slow and deliberate as if savouring the closeness between you. When the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, he gently lowers you down, following you onto the soft mattress.

You shift to make room for him, and he pulls you into his arms once more, tucking you against his chest as you both settle under the covers. The room is quiet, the only sound the soft rustling of sheets as you snuggle closer, your legs tangling together as you find a comfortable position. His hand rests on your hip, holding you close, while your hand rests against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.

Pausing, you both lay there, the earlier argument a distant memory as the warmth of his body lulls you into a sense of calm. And then, Logan tilts your chin up, his eyes searching yours in the dim light. He leans down, pressing another tender kiss to your lips, slow and sweet.

You return the kiss, sighing into it while your hand slides up to rest on his cheek, your thumb brushing against the stubble on his jaw. The kiss deepens, but it remains gentle, a comforting connection rather than the desperation of before. When you finally pull back, you’re both breathless, faces flushed in the heat of moment.

“Get some sleep,” Logan murmurs, his voice low and soothing as he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

You hum in agreement, feeling the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with you. “You too,” you reply softly, your voice already tinged with sleep.

He pulls you closer, pressing a final kiss to your forehead before settling back against the pillows, his arms securely around you. You rest your head on his chest, your eyes fluttering shut as you let the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull you into a peaceful sleep. The last thing you’re aware of is the warmth of his arms around you, the feeling of safety and comfort that only he can bring.

------

A/N: I really enjoyed writing this one guys. Thanks for all the notes on my first two fics!

[gyuubear]

Obsession

Kai loves his wife…maybe a little too much…

Pairing: husband!Kai x wife!reader

Warnings: themes of obsession and perversion, dom!Kai, bent over, missionary, fingering, no protection, creampie, slight power dynamics, possessiveness, intense/emotional sex, pet names, anything else I missed, MDNI

A/N: I've been wrestling with this for so long but I finally finished!! And I decided to give it a cute ending cuz why not. I personally really love this one and I hope you guys will too! Enjoy! (≧◡≦) ♡

WC: 3.5k

If there’s one thing Kai loves to do, it’s make love to his adorable wife. Without a doubt it’s his favorite activity. And no matter how much he fucks you, he can’t ever get enough. He's insatiable, the need to be consumed by your warmth a constant hunger in his body.

He’s obsessed with the sweet noises you make when he’s pumping you full of cum, the sight of you being utterly ruined on his thick cock, the way your eyes glaze over when he gives you too much and you can't do anything but take it like a good girl...

And when he’s not fucking you his thoughts are consumed with lewd images of you, and all the filthy things he wants to do to you. 

Doesn’t make a difference if he’s in a meeting or watching tv; he’s always craving you.

Which is exactly why, even though he’s sitting at his desk doing work, he can't pull his eyes away from your pretty thighs. It wasn’t your intention to distract him; you simply wandered into the room looking for the only stapler in your house, which is on Kai’s desk. But since the stapler won’t cooperate you have to stand there fidgeting with it in an attempt to fix the problem.

From his peripheral vision he notices the hem of your short skirt swaying here and there. His eyes immediately latch on to the movement. Fingers hovering over the keyboard of his computer, work is completely forgotten as he eyes the smooth skin disappearing beneath grey fabric and bites his lip. The deadline for the current project report is due in a few hours, it would be a bad idea to get distracted now…but then again…he can’t help the fact that his wife is so cute and desirable.

His hand reaches out, grazing the back of your thigh, sliding up along soft skin. The gentle pressure makes you jump, especially when you feel the cool metal of his wedding band.

“Oh!”, you relax once you realize it’s just your husband. “Kai, what are you doing?”

“Nothing?”, he replies innocently, as if he’s confused what you’re even talking about.

But the slow upturn of the corner of his mouth and his half lidded eyes suggest anything but innocence. Unaware of the indecent thoughts running through his mind you return your focus to the stupid stapler. However, the lust flooding Kai’s senses is only growing.

His hand trails a little higher, just enough so the tips of his fingers vanish beneath the hem of your skirt. Your struggle with the stapler falters. Goosebumps break out over your skin. The familiar silence of the room is now charged with something else, a faint buzzing that can't be ignored. The two of you haven't been married very long, but you've been together for some time now, and yet it always surprises you how sensitive you still are to his touch.

You quickly push your suspicion aside; maybe it’s not what you’re thinking. After all, it’s not uncommon for Kai to have his hands on you.

Kai fights a giggle. He knows you so well, the way you’re so naive and trusting, he can always tell what you’re thinking. As he toys with you, his mind wanders to your panties. The color you might be wearing, the style and fabric type...He loves guessing; maybe it's the pervert in him, it’s like a secret game he plays with himself. Even when he knows he shouldn't, he thinks about you and your underwear, mind forever lost in thoughts of you.

Pink, he decides. It’s your favorite and you have so many in this color, it’s always a safe bet.

His dick throbs at the thought of you in your underwear, wanting to fuck you so bad. In fact, it’s not a want, it’s a need. The need to fuck his pretty wife dumb is like his need for air, and sometimes just the thought of you has him straining in his pants.

His fingers creep up farther under your skirt and ever-so-slightly pull the skin of your thigh away from your core.

“Kai!”, your breath catches in your throat, realizing his true intentions.

He pouts teasingly, “What?”

“D-don’t you have a deadline or something?“

He scowls at that. The deadline is the last thing he wants to think about right now. He can't even bring himself to care when there's a more pressing matter to attend to.

“Shh, don’t worry your pretty head about that, honey. I’m focused on something much better right now.”

Before you can respond, Kai’s fingers brush your clothed pussy, and a bolt of hot lightning runs down your spine. It’s crazy how you never get used to his touch. You try to ignore him; ignore how he softly traces the most sensitive part of your body, how your stomach flutters at every caress.

Maybe he’ll get bored and go back to his work, you hope.

But kai could never get bored of you. His love for you is like a sickness, one that has no cure—not that he would even want a cure.

He observes you carefully, fascinated by the reactions he's coaxing from you, the way you think you’re hiding the effect he’s having on you, but Kai can see the slight trembling of your thighs and the pink spreading across your cheeks. His muscles tense as he resists the urge to fuck you already, because he knows if he goes to fast you might come to your senses and tell him to get back to work. He’s gonna have to get you whining and begging for him, and luckily, that’s something he enjoys doing (and is also very good at).

Slipping a finger beneath your panties, he curses under his breath at the wet warmth of your pussy. You thought you could resist but when you feel his finger directly on your folds you know you’re a goner. The stapler in your hands is worthless as you drop it on the desk with a gasp and rest your shaky hands on the wood. Kai takes his time with you as he spreads your slick along your folds, drawing out pathetic whines from you with every stroke. He slides his finger back and forth a few times before tracing agonizingly gentle circles around your fluttering hole.

When he finally slips a finger into your gummy walls you can’t stop the moan that escapes you. Your fingers curl, nails digging into the wood as you turn your face away from Kai. Cute, he marvels. It’s endearing to him how you still get embarrassed by your own moans.

The pad of his finger prods at the inside of your pussy, finger sinking in an out, knuckle dragging deliciously against your opening. Applying gentle pressure at first but increasing in intensity as he begins to pump his finger in and out.

“K-Kai…”, you whimper.

Smiling smugly, he inquires, “Something wrong, bub?”

You whine at the tone of his voice. You know he’s damn well aware of what he’s doing to you, he just loves teasing you. Especially when the trembling in your legs is getting more noticeable. You squirm against the pleasure, whining and biting your lip to prevent more moans from pouring out. "Don't", he urges, "you know I always wanna hear you".

"But-"

He cuts you off with a gentle, but stern, warning, "Don't force me to be mean, bub."

You whine a bit more, but ultimately concede with a surprised moan when his thumb brushes your clit.

Head clouded from the pleasure and barely able to keep yourself standing upright, your arms drop onto the table, and you lean all your weight forward so that you’re completely bent over Kai’s desk. The sight of his wife surrendering herself to him, putting herself totally at his mercy, ignites a rush of adrenaline through his veins. The high he gets as a result makes his dick strain painfully in his pants. He could probably cum just from this.

His breath hitches once he realizes your skirt has risen up, revealing the color of your panties.

Pink.

Getting the color of your underwear right always feels like a reward. He palms his dick over his pants to get some relief, while simultaneously increasing the speed of his finger in you. “Kai!”, you gasp for breath at the way his finger curls against your walls. “M-more..”

Hueningkai's heart swells in his chest whenever you say his name like that, breathless and calling for him like a lifeline. It's the sound that plays in his mind 24/7, a sweet melody meant only for his ears, because only he can do this to you; only he can make his wife feel so good.

"Yeah?", he rasps, voice thick with desire, "My baby needs more of me?"

Too embarrassed to speak, you nod meekly. He slides in another finger and as he ramps up the speed your jaw goes slack, leaving you unable to formulate a single word. Every nerve, tendon, and muscle in your legs is useless as the pressure builds and you completely slump over his desk, boobs flattened against the wood.

When the stickiness between your legs starts to drip down Kai's hand, he teases, “What a mess baby, dripping everywhere…” And he’s right, you are a mess, nothing but a puddle of bliss on his desk as he parts your walls over and over again. " 'm cumming!!" is all you manage to choke before your orgasm takes over you, knocking the air out of your lungs and leaving you breathless and heaving.

Once your orgasm subsides, you get up on shaky legs, but you grip the edge of the desk for support at what you see when you turn around. Kai is running his tongue up his hand, licking your juices off his fingers, groaning at the flavor cuz he's completely obsessed with the taste of his wife. You gulp and attempt to keep yourself steady, but he keeps his eyes on you while he cleans you off his fingers. Your knees buckle when he says, "mm, taste so good, honey".

He gets up from his chair, warm hands pulling you close, tight grip on your waist in case your legs give out. Your hands instantly tangle themselves in his shirt, clutching him for dear life to stay afloat in this feeling of absolute intoxication.

He cups your face with his clean hand, and leans in for a loving kiss, pressing his lips softly against yours. Breaking away only to come back harder. He tilts your head back to deepen the kiss, brushing his thumb softly over your cheek. He opens his mouth against yours, sucking the plump fat of your lips, running his tongue and teeth over the skin. You respond in kind, letting him devour your lips but also running your own tongue all over his mouth. The kiss quickly becomes wet and sloppy, driven by passion as you both consume each other.

The hand on your waist runs down your back, pressing you into him. His kisses are all tongue and saliva as he curves into you, always wanting more, more, more. You have to physically force him away to be able to catch your breath. Even then, he only gives a few centimeters, breathing you in while he watches you pant.

“My darling wife”, he whispers, his breath warm and moist against your cheek, “all mine”. The words would sound sweet to anyone else, but you know him like your own skin; you can hear the intensity in them, the silent threat that he’s going to devour you. It’s that threat, that promise, that sends heat coursing through your blood, leaving your tummy and fingertips tingly.

He sits you on the desk, easing you down so that you're laying on your back. Nimble fingers slip your panties down and off your legs, tossing them aimlessly, as he hurries to unbutton his jeans and push his underwear down just enough. You watch with eager eyes as he takes out his beautiful cock, so big and veiny you feel yourself salivating immediately.

"Your shirt", you mumble quietly, wanting to see more of your husband's perfect body. He smirks as he goes to grant your request, but the small reminder of your desire for him sends a shiver through his body, because he still can’t quite believe his luck, that this is his reality. The knowledge of it makes him dizzy.

"Eager for me, honey?" He drawls, voice slow and deliberate. One hand pumping his dick, the other finds the flimsy fabric of your skirt, flipping the material over your stomach with a flick of his wrist, and exposing your puffy, swollen pussy.

You inhale sharply, not so much from the cold air, but from your husband’s predatory gaze. The weight of his attention sinks into you, searing your sensitive skin as he eyes you like a delicacy made just for him. Your bottom lip quivers at his fervor, " 'c-course I am...always am for you. You know that.” At the sight of your sweet, devoted expression, eyes wide with adoration, his patience snaps. He can't wait anymore. He needs to feel you around him right now.

One hand on your hip, he aligns his tip with your hole, rubbing it a few times against your folds to get it nice and wet, before parting your walls in one long, slow thrust.

"Fuck, bub..." he sighs at how your pussy welcomes him, your body so willing and compliant for him. He goes slow, wanting to savor the moment, the heavenly feeling of your tight, hot pussy enveloping him, slick walls making way for him and pulling him deeper and deeper.

“Ah..! Kai—nng—too much!” Your mind reels at the feeling of being stuffed full of your husband's fat cock. But he barely gives you any time to adjust, pulling out half way and slamming back into you, stretching your poor pussy so good you’re wailing on his dick. Your arousal is out of control, sticky syrup coats him with every thrust, and you mewl helplessly at the way he splits you open.

He leans over your frame, one hand caging you in while the other skims over your skirt, finding your plush tits. A cloud of haze has fallen over him, wrapping around his brain, and his eyes, drowning out everything—except you. “My pretty wife”, he whispers, almost as if to himself, “Mine, all mine. Mine, mine, mine.” He punctuates each word with sharp thrusts, rocking your small frame. 

He kneads your breast like it’s his own personal stress toy. Roughly groping you, relishing in how you cry out for him, but never relenting. He pushes your shirt up and hastily unhooks your bra, lips immediately latching on to your nipple. He sucks your sensitive bud harshly, biting and nipping, a cruel eagerness that has you squealing and writhing below him. "Oh...shit, so cute….just wanna ruin you over and over again”. Kai’s hands and lips ravage your body, hips quickening their pace, ramming into you as his worship of your body increases in its desperation. He trails sloppy, open mouthed kisses all over you, slobbering like a dog, leaving your boobs red and shiny with his saliva. More profanities fall from his lips at your sweet noises of pleasure.

There’s something different about him right now, something foreign in his intensity…at least that’s what you tell yourself.

Deep down, you know it’s always been there. His love, his touch, has always been all-consuming. You never let yourself acknowledge it before, because you couldn't face the truth. Not that your husband has an unhealthy addiction to you, but that you can't help but be turned on by it. It’s so hot. 

“So perfect— god….” His eyes are closed, eyebrows furrowed. Kai’s usually very teasing and mischievous during sex, never this vehement. He knows it. He’s aware of it; of the cracks forming, his obsession— something he always tries to keep at bay— flooding out.

It’s getting harder and harder for you to stay afloat. You dig your nails into his shoulders, frantically trying to hold on to your sanity, but Kai has long since lost his. He’s unraveling completely. “Sweetheart", he groans against your neck, half delirious with desire, “my sweet angel...what are you doing to me?”

You whine at his sudden declaration, unable to stop the room from spinning around you.  "nnng- ah!" His dick pounds into you so perfectly, slamming into your sweet spot with every thrust. You wrap your legs around his hips, wanting to feel him even deeper. 

“Oh god oh god!” You cry out. It seems as though your husband wants you to lose your mind, just like he’s losing his. Because he’s not holding anything back. His dick pounds into you unforgivingly, stretching your little cunt beyond what it can take. The nasty squelching noises only fueling his desperate chase for release. If he keeps going like this you’re not gonna last very long.

His hand slides up your arm, removing your hand from his shoulder and bringing it to rest above your head. His wedding ring presses into your fingers, and it brings your attention to your own wedding ring pressing into his shoulder— a reminder of your vows to each other. That you're bound to each other.

Your eyes meet his as if you both had the same thought.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and in this moment, that has never felt truer. Kai's chocolate brown eyes seem to engulf you, silently communicating what words can’t. The intensity within them sets your skin on fire. Earlier, he asked you what you’re doing to him…but does he realize what he's doing to you?

In a moment of shyness you look away, but he grabs your jaw, forcing you to keep your eyes on him. His grip is gentle but firm, never letting you look away, wanting you to see his every emotion as he makes a mess of the both of you. He wants you to feel his love, his infatuation. Wanting you to see just what you do to him. “Hyuka”, you whimper, overwhelmed at all the sensations he’s giving you— the way he utterly loses himself in you. He forces you to bear witness to how you're undoing him.

“You belong to me”, he rasps, voice heavy with love and desire. His eyes never waver from yours.

You make a choked noise of confusion, hardly able to process anything over your approaching orgasm.

“Say it", he groans, urgently, "say you're mine!"

“I’m yours!” You gasp. 

At that, Kai's hands tighten around yours, knuckles white as his hips stutter against yours. A few erratic thrusts and he deposits his cum deep into your pussy with a loud, broken grunt. His whole body shudders against you, eyes shut tight and face buried in your neck. Your own orgasm hits you like a tsunami, wave after wave pulling you under, drowning you in his love, in his obsession. “Fuck”, he moans at how you tremble beneath him, and the way your pussy clenches around his dick, milking him dry.

He collapses against you, and the two of you stay like that for what feels like an eternity. Quiet, except for the sounds of panting, as you both try to catch your breath. Even once you’ve calmed down, you stay fixed in place, both stunned and anchored in the moment, not wanting to face what just happened as the haze starts to lift.

The minutes stretch, and you finally feel him shift against you, slowly, almost reluctantly. His hair, damp with sweat, skims your neck and jaw as his face comes up to look at yours. “You alright, bub?” he asks gently, his voice a contrast to the intense desperation it held just minutes ago. The second his eyes meet yours, heat sparks under your skin, and you clench around him involuntarily. His eyes flutter at the feeling, momentarily caught off guard. When he meets your eyes again your blushing and biting your lip, suddenly shy and embarrassed. God, you just had him all to yourself, don’t you have any self control?, you mentally scold yourself. Maybe you’re just as badly obsessed as your husband.

Kai sees the wheels churning in your pretty little head and chuckles at your cuteness. “Only you could be so shy and cute after such intense sex…” He plants a kiss on your lips, lingering a bit, before pulling away and repeating, “But seriously, bub, you alright? I wasn’t too much? ‘Cuz I know I kinda went a little crazy there…”

“I mean, i-it was a bit too much”, you mumble, “b-but I liked it!”

He huffs, grinning at his adorable wife, heart swelling with pride and cockiness, and a little something else too…but he quickly gets rid of the thought. You’ve had enough for today. He slowly drags his dick out of your soaked pussy, hissing at the feeling. After tucking himself back into his jeans he picks you up bridal style, taking you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, murmuring softly about how well you did, and how good you are to him. 

——

Taglist: @beomgyusluver

[diodellet]

chicken soup for the transmigrated soul

ft. ruggie bucchi, trey clover, rook hunt, jade leech, ortho shroud, lilia vanrouge, jamil viper

summary: So you worked yourself into a slight fever, no biggie. Take a painkiller for the headache, drink some extra water, do not make any sudden movements to keep from triggering the dizziness, and of course, whenever you could, catch a few z's in between work. You've done this before, you had a system. Even at your friends' protests—bless their concern, you'd always be grateful for that—it was only Tuesday. You could handle this until Friday and cash in a "long weekend" to rest. (Spoiler: You couldn't even make it to the end of classes.) content warnings: -gn!reader is yuu/ramshackle prefect (++tendency to overthink, gets lonely easily) -references to vomiting (due to emetic in Jade's part, as in his food deliberately makes you puke), food aversion (in Trey's and Ruggie's parts), and nonsexual partial nudity (in Lilia's part). nothing too graphic -swearing and general banter/ribbing as you would expect in a setting like NRC -all of these are platonic, but can be read (except for Ortho's) as romantic (i guess that makes it idia x reader if you squint??) ++mild hurt/comfort, there's shenanigans alongside the fluff in the midst of a twisted wonderland cold hitting like a truck word count: 4.5k words (~680 words per part)

Ortho Shroud is the first to notice your symptoms.

Scratch that, he's pre-empting the onset of your fever symptoms. And what baffles him most is that even with scientifically-backed data, you are still intent on continuing your work!

"You can't keep going to classes until Friday!"

It doesn't help that Idia('s tablet) will chime in and commend you on your commitment to the hustle grindset. Peas in a pod, the two of you😤

While Ortho doesn't need to worry about the same physiological needs that a regular human does, at least he takes care of himself! But all right, fine. There's the 0.000001 percent chance that you're not sick. You know yourself best.

(He's absolutely reminding you that he told you so every time he visits you in Ramshackle.)

On the bright side, there's zero worry about catching whatever you've got when he flits back and forth between your place and Ignihyde. He's found another good use of his built-in UV disinfection lamp! (Aside from curing Idia's resin projects and character-inspired acrylic art.)

When you're confined to bedrest, he brings over games, manga, movies—anything laid-back to keep you occupied.

Sometimes Idia joins in, remotely, of course. Can't risk catching what you have, he says. To which you retort by saying you'll sneeze on his tablet.

"Don't threaten my big brother, his immune system isn't as strong as yours!"

(His calculated objectivity really made you forget that he was a little brother at heart, that is to say, an Absolute Menace to you and Idia.)

It comes as a surprise when he asks if he can use your kitchen. You're about to pull yourself out of bed and follow him when he suddenly backtracks. "Wait! You need to keep resting! Any further elevation in your heart rate could…" Was that a buffering sound? "—could lead to a 67% chance of a mild onset of orthostatic hypotension!"

Was he was going to test some experimental drug on you—well, that was more of Pomefiore's area of expertise, but you couldn't rule that out. He and Idia weren't quite that discreet when talking about how inconvenient your symptoms were.

("Wow, breathe louder through the protagonist's monologue, why don't you, prefect?" and "If you get so much as a droplet of moisture on that first edition manga, I'm never talking to you again."

Oh, if only Ortho wasn't watching you…If only that high-powered technomantic beam wasn't a threat…)

Your thinking is interrupted by a coughing fit that almost leaves you light-headed. Fine, the persistence of a little sibling wins out this time. "Grim, go and help." Though the direbeast complains, he trots after Ortho.

While waiting, you doze off. It's not a very peaceful rest, what with snot dripping down the back of your throat and the ache in your temple.

But it's better than sleeping at night. Oh, your midnight thoughts were not very kind.

Ortho wakes you up, and he's handing you a warm bowl of soup. Well, it seemed to be more vegetables than actual broth. Great if you liked vegetables, not so great if you were tentative of surprise textures in your soup.

At your questioning look, he explains, "it's lentil soup. It's a staple back home, and my brother's go-to when he's sick. Try some!"

You can barely smell the dish with your clogged sinuses, but with the generous amount of toppings, it's more filling than your previous meals of plain broth and noodles. And Ortho makes for good company, the same way Idia is. It's a hearty meal that leaves you feeling cared for, in spite of the Shroud siblings' penchant for mischief.

(Really, being their friend meant being on the receiving end of So Much Sass. You were barely given any mercy even when your immune system was compromised 😤)

"I have to get back to Ignihyde, please get well soon! You promised my brother that you would run a co-op dungeon with him!"

Jamil Viper is a worrywart through and through.

As much as he channels disappointment through his words and expression.

"You can't attend afternoon classes in that state."

"It's just History and a free study period, I can handle that much!"

Sure, you didn't look very convincing with a snot-filled handkerchief held to your nose. But at least you were standing upright on your two feet, a feat that most sick people wouldn't be able to manage!

Before you can breeze past him, Jamil grabs the back of your blazer, spins you around to press a hand against your forehead. He tsks. "You're burning up. I thought so."

Go ahead, dig your heels in and make a scene, it won't stop him from dragging you to the infirmary. Jamil's making sure that you're getting sent back to rest at your dorm. ("You won't get penalized for your absences if you let them give you the damn doctor's note!")

But while your friends were on their way, he supposes he has no choice but to keep you company (and make sure you don't sneak back to class. Seriously, what kind of school did you come from that made you think it was okay to ignore the fact that you were sick?)

So here you are, resting in one of the infirmary's free beds with Jamil watching you like a hawk.

Awkward is an understatement. He looks like he's seething. He looks like he's cursing you for adding your sickness onto his juggling act of obligations.

"I was telling you I could walk—"

"Sure, and then you'd push yourself into an even worse fever. I'm not moving." Psh, it's not even a full-blown one yet. Look at the exciting back-and-forth you were sharing. Wait, now that he mentions it, your throat was feeling weirdly dry.

"…Not even if I need a glass of water?"

Jamil watches you down half the glass. "Your lack of self-care is appalling."

(Why does it feel that part of that remark is directed at himself? Maybe you could squeeze out some embarrassing anecdotes from Kalim once you've recovered.)

When the conversation lulls, that you can't do anything else but give in to your fatigue. Even though you feel extra sweaty and gross in your uniform, you doze off mid-sentence. You feel the press of his palm against your forehead a second time, could almost hear Jamil muttering to himself, something about your fever rising.

For a moment, he's gone. And then nice, cool relief atop your forehead. "…did I fall asleep? What was I talking about—"

"Calm down, I won't leave you alone." His fingers brush the stray strands of hair from your face. "Keep resting. I'll wake you up when your friends get here."

(Kinda mortifying that he could sense that you really didn't want be alone in such a state. Or, maybe it was comforting that he immediately understood that sentiment?)

"Could you talk about something—anything? At least until I fall asleep again?"

Jamil gives you a look, it's not quite admonishing, but whatever iota of fondness you see disappears as he sighs, "all right."

He barely makes it through his first anecdote—something about his roommate accidentally enchanting the school's plants, which then attempted to migrate from the botanical gardens—when you slip back into a comfy nap.

Your fever lowers to a slightly more manageable temperature when Grim and co. arrive at the infirmary. By then, your group parts ways.

With his own whirlwind of a daily schedule, Jamil doesn't visit you that much at Ramshackle. (And that's probably for the best, so he won't catch what you have.)

But you do receive a container of chicken soup and a pack of over-the-counter meds to help manage your symptoms. (And it's not much of a note, but he does send you a text about not overexerting yourself. That hypocrite.)

Maybe it's the mix of spices warming you up with each spoonful, or you could dare to hope that it was made with love a certain vice housewarden's wishes for your speedy recovery.

Trey Clover is the most experienced at playing caretaker.

But did you really want to rope in the busiest person at Heartslabyul?

Just kidding, he's the vice housewarden. He can easily get an extra set of hands to take the burden off. (See: The rest of Heartslabyul)

Ace and Deuce get the brunt of the extra work, of course, being your classmates. Your missed homework, copies of lecture notes, and a smidge of the current classroom drama. (Guess what Ace contributed 👀)

If you think for even a second that Trey is here to provide a brief heavenly respite amidst your sickness, you would be sorely mistaken.

When you felt you've had enough of the same bland sickfood, you once asked Cater to smuggle your favorite sugary drink from the school vending machine during their next care package delivery.

Instead you get a passive aggressive sermon about not impeding your body's healing, and of course, salt in the wound (read: Trey asking if you really wanted to endanger your dental health too.)

Whatever happened to Cater, you didn't know. You could only hope that whatever consequences* he received, that they were fair to the poor guy.

*He'll be fine, especially since he's got Split Card.

Trey is ruthless. Nothing will get him to bend the rules of your recovery regimen. (And maybe the fact that he's diligent about wearing a mask makes him look more intimidating than usual.)

He's had to take care of his little siblings when they were sick. He's basically immune to any and all complaints and tactics (especially puppy eyes).

You're partway through a bowl of savory porridge (not the best texture when you're dealing with post-nasal drip, but the toppings were yummy) when you set the spoon down. It clinks defeatedly against the rim of the ceramic, drawing Trey's attention.

"What's wrong? You've only got half of the serving left."

"…'m not hungry anymore." It's tiring, being confined to your bed and bathroom for the past few days. And when you think that you're well enough to return to work, your symptoms return with a vengeance.

"Don't—Don't get out of bed, what do you need?"

"I need to catch up on homework or do something instead of wasting time—"

"You and Riddle are surprisingly similar." He probably wanted to use a different word. Trey sighs, equal parts fond and exasperated. "Let me try something first."

He casts Doodle Suit and you look at him questioningly. "Just try a spoonful," he says.

"But what if it doesn't work?" For a moment, you wonder if you can really make it to complete recovery.

"Then we'll figure something out. But you need to eat something alongside taking the medicine."

Wow, very comforting bedside manner 🙄 Without the support of his baked confections, Trey is so matter-of-fact that it's like talking to a brick wall.

Begrudgingly, you taste a scoop of the prestidigitated porridge and—

"It tastes weird. What did you change it into?" A laugh bubbles up from you.

"What? I could've sworn I made it taste like…" Of course he'd try to change it into your current sweet craving.

You try another spoonful, which is challenging not because of your lack of appetite, but rather in trying not to spit it out from laughter.

"It's so weird." Still, you manage to finish the entire bowl. "Man, I can't wait to go back to sampling your Unbirthday tarts."

At your change in demeanor, Trey barely slumps with relief. "Well, focus on getting better first."

He isn't the best with comforting words, but the next time he visits, you're treated to some tea with a generous amount of honey. With the caveat that you can only have one (1) cup per day.

And of course, he's persistent in reminding you to brush your teeth afterwards.

Ruggie Bucchi, opportunist that he is, becomes a frequent visitor.

"Y'didn't give Grim enough for your meds."

"Oh shit, how much do I owe you?"

"Just by five thaumarks, buuut I can let it slide if—"

Of course you knew that any extra help wouldn't come for free.

Whatever comfort meal he can throw together, he's leaving Ramshackle with two Tupperwares for himself.

He'll inflate expenses by a thaumark or two, just to pocket for himself.

Speaking of Grim, you've become very familiar with his complaints about following Ruggie around.

"My paws are numb from zipping back and forth around campus…"

"Henchman, he's doing all this extra work for pocket change. Pocket change!"

"He refuses to even waste gas for the stove! I can't be confined to the kitchen forever, henchman! You gotta get better!"

And you were trying! But this was the sort of sickness that could only get better with rest. Which is to say, something that couldn't be rushed.

Not that Ruggie's trying to hurry you along your healing. He seems perfectly happy with this current setup.

"Hm? Worried about me catching what you have? I'm tougher than some common cold, Prefect." It's either he wears a mask or you're getting the ghosts to throw him out.

Sure, he punctuates every similar remark with his trademark hissing laugh, but it was impossible to catch a light nap with how often he came into your room.

(It was as if he was making absolutely sure that your sickness wouldn't take a turn for the worse.)

You've taken to shrugging off your blanket every few minutes just to savor the feeling of getting tucked back in. A fitting exchange, since he freely toted Grim around campus.

"Prefe~ct, are you ever gonna use this pack of egg drop soup?" Ruggie shakes the packet, as if that would further entice your lack of an appetite.

The thought of being spoonfed crosses your mind briefly. "Why not? Better it gets used up instead of waiting until its expiration date."

"See, I told you that you've gotta stop hoarding your food." He grins. "Give me fifteen minutes."

Ten minutes later, Ruggie's got half of the pot's contents stashed away in a Tupperware cooling on your dining room table, while your own bowl was going cold atop your bedside nightstand.

"Don't you have Spelldrive training? Or some…part-time shift?"

"Nope, not really." Well, he deflected that really quickly. "I'm not that much of a workaholic."

Negotiating with Crowley was basically pulling teeth. "Must be nice, being able to shirk your work."

"Even I know not to push myself past my limits," Ruggie tsks at you. "And stop stalling, you're wasting your soup."

He even added some vegetables alongside the broth, making it more filling than if you were to cook it by yourself.

"Did you have to look after the neighborhood kids when they got sick?"

"Sometimes, yeah. 'Sides, it earns me free food and extra favors." The smile on his face is more devious than of genuine fondness.

"What a role model you are, teaching the children some quid pro quo."

"Well, you can't be picky with your opportunities." Ruggie shrugs. "Speaking of which, you should stop picking at your food. That's only two scoops."

"Two? I bet you could unhinge your jaw and finish the entire pot in two gulps."

His expression turns serious for a second. "I might just do it if you let your soup freeze over."

What was supposed to be an amused huff turned into you scrambling for a tissue to wipe away the glob of mucus that escaped your nose.

That gets Ruggie to break character, dissolving into wheezing laughter.

(You're not sure if Ruggie saw in you some resemblance to the kids back in his hometown, but you don't mind the ribbing. If it meant not having to see him get all worried pensive over you.)

Rook Hunt is more enamored than dependable. He's capable, but at the cost of…well…

You'd have to forgive him for being so enthralled with the progression of your recovery.

Now that you're well enough to catch up on some light chores and studying. Boy, are you glad to be out of bed.

"Bonjour, mon Trickster!"

"GAH!"

He scales the outer wall of your dorm once, and he decides to use that route for each subsequent visit. Of course.

"Rook, can you please use the front door next time?"

"Désolés, I was in a hurry," he says, with a smile too bright to be considered apologetic. "You are looking healthier today."

"You say that every time you visit."

Thankfully, he seems too busy shaking out the extra foliage and dirt from his hat out your window to notice your frown.

"This is from us at Pomefiore, Vil and Epel wanted you to have something hearty." And he somehow produces a steaming container from…his sleeve?

Did the Pomefiore dorm uniform have pockets? Or was he using some kind of spatial magic?

"Oh, sure, we can have breakfast before I get to work."

What you don't expect is him pressing the back of his ungloved hand against your forehead, then the side of your neck.

"Your hardworking spirit is very admirable, Trickster, but you should take care to not exert yourself too much."

"My work is piling up. If you're so worried about me getting sick again, then help me out for a bit."

At least he's willing to help with the chores. Admittedly, your strength wasn't completely back to a 100% but having Rook's assistance made the busywork go by more smoothly.

(Of course, you have to treat him to some cheap coffee after cleaning half of the Ramshackle lounge.)

The next morning, you're feeling…off—not quite unwell to be considered sick, more of a general sense of discomfort. The kind that precedes a full blown fever.

"Are you still intent on working today? Perhaps it would be better for you to rest today," Rook suggests after checking your temperature again.

And go back to twiddling your thumbs idly? Stuck with staring at the peeling wallpaper of your bedroom? Hell no.

"I need the lounge to be clean or I'll go mad if I spend the day in bed again."

This time you get winded even more quickly, that you have to entrust the last of the heavy work to Rook.

"Thanks for that, I'll get started on dinner."

"Just a moment, Trickster. You are shaking like a newborn fawn." His palm rests on your shoulder. "You can hold onto my arm."

"Thanks, but no thanks." You brush off his hand. Big mistake, the moment you cross the lounge, your vision goes sideways.

Once your head clears up, you realize you're leaning heavily against Rook's side. "Huh."

His expression is creased with frustration as he surveys your condition. Whatever he mutters under his breath is too quiet to hear, but you're sure he's blaming himself.

(You're also feeling a twinge of regret.)

"…could you at least help me to bed? And heat up some of that leftover stew you brought?"

Come the next day, one of the Ramshackle ghosts brings in a basket. You easily surmise this was from Pomefiore.

Reading the note—it reads more like a novella than a 'get well soon' card, especially with contrite flourishes that were obviously in Rook's handwriting—it turns out that the vice housewarden was banned from visiting you in Ramshackle, as consequence for inadvertently sending you back into a fever.

There's another container of that stew, some fruit (probably from Epel), and a different brand of fever medication, probably the better ones that would've eaten a hole through your meager savings.

(You set the note, the backs of your hands and the cardstock slightly dampened in several places. And you pop one pill of the gifted medicine.)

For all of his suspicious motives, Jade Leech is suprisingly capable.

Was this a good thing during the worst of your relapse? Who knows.

He's omnipresent, but he isn't overbearing. He keeps things nicely professional and doesn't seem to be rummaging through your things. (Good, because you gave Grim the go-ahead to blast singe him if he did.)

Is it eerie how well he can preempt when you need water or a new box of tissues? Maybe. But on the bright side, you won't have to worry about burning through your clean laundry.

(Surely Octavinelle would collect their debt after you've made a full recovery, right? Right?? NO—)

It's another day of feeling miserable in bed. Food sounds the furthest appealing thing at the moment, you want to sleep the day away but your miserable hour of sleep is making you buzz with stale energy.

Enter Jade Leech with an unassuming food container. But, it looks appetizing enough that you can tolerate one more meal in bed.

"Is this chicken noodle soup?"

"Pastina is similar, though food from the Coral Sea doesn't tend to be served piping hot. Please, eat to your heart's content."

Your suspicion melts away at that first spoonful. "It's actually pretty good…!"

"You wound me with your doubt, prefect." So he says with a wide smile hidden behind his facemask.

In between bites of your food, Jade is more than happy to tell you about his recent hikes for the Mountain Lovers Club. (<-This was a moment of weakness, obviously. You're so cooped up you'll take his anecdotes to inspire imagining being out and about.)

Until halfway through finishing the soup, your stomach gurgles. Very uncomfortably.

"…Is something wrong?" His eyes are still crinkled into crescents.

Before you can speak, you clamp a hand over your mouth to keep your meal from spilling onto your bed.

That spurs the vice housewarden to help you to the bathroom.

So Jade basically gave you an emetic. You're cussing him out in between retches, and the bastard has the audacity to chuckle demurely while holding your hair back.

"What the fuck did you give me?" Not a question, a threat. "What is it really?"

"It is a simple home remedy made with local ingredients. I promise you that I did not make any adjustments to the recipe." Another wave of that "soup" splatters into the toilet bowl, and you're glaring at him through the burn of tears in your eyes. "Though I suppose you might be intolerant to one of the components, as you are someone who lives on land," he muses.

(If you listened closely, there might've been a note of something akin to sadistic scientific thrill.)

Strangely enough, it seems to have flushed out the worst of the bug in your system. You can stomach real food now.

(This is where Jade reveals his actual gift from Octavinelle, your usual order at the Mostro Lounge. You're glad to be able to have something that wasn't some stew or soup.)

"Hm, the color has returned to your features," he notes, his face a smidge too close for comfort. "Hopefully with another night of rest, your sickness will clear up for good."

"It better or I'm marching over to Octavinelle and turning you into sashimi." The splatter of vomit on the side of your cheek makes you look more pitiful than threatening. "And you better not include that takeout on my tab."

"Oh dear." At least Jade indulges you with his best approximation of a fearful response. (Which was more akin to an ingenuine smile inviting you to do your worst.)

But he does keep the teasing to a minimum when he helps you back to bed, though. Not that you're willing to forgive him that quickly.

The next time Jade visits, he's under heavy surveillance by Grim and the Ramshackle ghosts.

I lied, Lilia Vanrouge is actually the most experienced caretaker among the vice housewardens.

Unlike Rook who camps outside your dorm, Lilia freely teleports in and out of Ramshackle. All you have as a warning are the little green sparks of light—not that dissimilar to Malleus' own teleportation magic—and the pop! that accompanies Lilia's appearing in your room.

"Good evening, prefect. I hope I'm not disturbing your rest."

"Eh, this sickness has been disturbing me for about a week now." You punctuate that by blowing your nose into a well-loved hanky.

(Well-loved, in that it hasn't left your hand since the past week.)

You're especially not used to being alone and idle. With each day you remain sick means burdening your friends again.

Lilia tsks to himself. "First things first, let's get you changed out of those clothes." Your cabinet opens and a newly-laundered set floats over to your bed. He starts pulling your sweaty shirt off.

"Wait, just let me go to the bathroom—"

Despite his appearance, Lilia's stronger than he appears. You're only able to resist his grip since he was being careful of accidentally tearing the fabric.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of, prefect. I've changed Malleus' and Silver's clothes. Oh and Sebek's, as well." As if he was merely talking about the weather.

"At least let me turn around…!"

Lilia swats at your shoulder. "Enough of that now." The gesture was more surprising than painful, eventually you give in to your fate.

He wipes your back dry before helping you slip on a new sweater atop your new clothes.

"And why don't we air out your room? The night isn't too cold." As he says that, you hear the windows of the second floor all swing open.

A cool breeze flows through your bedroom, and combined with the fresh change of clothes, your general feeling of shittiness dissipates.

Thanks to Sebek and Silver's intervention, you're spared from Lilia's rendition of ginseng chicken soup. Not that you can smell or taste much of it, but free food is free food. And Lilia's company is…sorely welcome alright.

"—and then, right as we were about to have that picnic, what do you know? It's suddenly raining! Malleus wasn't too pleased with that, and some spring rain turned into a little thunderstorm. Of course, Sebek and Silver—loyal friends that they are—insisted on pushing through. You can guess what happened the next day."

"…they got sick?"

"All three of them!" Lilia hoots with laughter. "Snot dripping onto the floor, fevers hot enough to hardboil an egg, oh, and you shouldn't underestimate the young heir's magic even he's ill. You couldn't tell if he would spew fire or ice until—"

(It's enviable that he has so many stories. Was he getting tired of talking to fill the silence?)

You readjust your resting position. From this angle against the glow of your lamp, he looks wearier than cherubic.

"Another cup of tea?" he asks.

"I'm fine. Shouldn't you be back at Diasomnia by now? It's past curfew."

"The dorm is in capable hands, even with my absence. Though I noticed that your other student is nowhere in the vicinity."

Of course you asked your friends if Grim could sleep over somewhere else instead. You didn't want him to become sick like you.

Flick! Lilia's fingers connect with the side of your ear. "Haven't I told you, enough of that?"

You rub at the sting. "It's practical…!"

"…really, you young'uns like to make things more difficult for yourselves." He shakes his head.

He reaches over to cover you more properly with your blanket. "There is no shame in wanting company as you recover. Nor is it a debt for us to visit and assist you."

"Okay." You blame your tears and sniffles on the soup and your sickness.

(The next day Grim comes back, accompanied with the rest of Diasomnia. Your lonely feverish thoughts were no longer your sole company.)

a/n: this was for ME the sick binch (like after not getting sick during the pandemic, these past times i've gotten sick were the Absolute Worst) and being sick when i'm supposed to be productive? goodbye🗿 this was also written for me as someone who's allergic to being doted on. hopefully this'll rewire my brain or smth who knows (kinda ironic that the people doing the doting are the more overworked peeps in the twst cast). not super confident about how i characterized everyone aside from jamil, this being my first time writing them but it's whatever! this is preparation for in case i wanna take a break from writing jamimi flex my writing muscles🤧 big thanks to @jessamine-rose for sharing ur fresh eyes and keeping my impostor syndrome at bay💕

the jamil writing taglist: @viperwhispered @bibi-cha @scint1llat3 @sillystr1ngs @pzlqpibz

@warriorpacifist @chloemari-e @mama-m1na

(lmk if you wanna join the taglist for jamil writing in the replies!)

[davinawritings]

can you do a really bratty cat hybrid bf that's very clingy but is the WORST behaved kitty ever? x

Warnings: none? Mentions of punishment maybe?

Cat Hybrid boyfriend who is super clingy and wants to be touching you 24/7. He loves to lay on top of you and nuzzle his face into your neck while you stroke his soft fur. He often keeps his tail wrapped around some part of your body, needing to feel connected to you in some way. As long as he is touching you, he tends to be pretty content, sitting calmly and giving soft purrs when you shower him with affection.

There are times when you don’t let him spend his day wrapped around you, mostly when you are in your home office working. When you don’t let him cling to you, he becomes an absolute menace. He craves your attention and affection, so denying him that causes him to be a complete brat.

You will be sitting in your office trying to work when you hear a crash down the hallway. Walking into the kitchen, you see him slowly knocking over the clean dishes, watching as they shatter on the floor. 

As he slowly pushes another towards the edge, you ask, “What are you doing?”. He doesn't even bother replying; he just holds eye contact as he shoves the dish towards the edge. You narrow your eyes at him, but he just glares back at you.

“Don't you dare break another dish,” you say, keeping your voice stern. He raises one eyebrow at you before shoving the dish off the counter. You watch as it quickly shatters to pieces, joining the fate of the several other pieces of glassware that now decorate the kitchen floor. 

As you watch his hand reach for another dish, you say, “Fine. You can sit with me in my office, but you need to behave. I need to finish up and submit my project for work, and I cannot have you being a distraction”. 

He quickly steps over the broken glass, making his way to you and wrapping himself around your body, purring in your ear and placing soft kisses up and down your neck. You return to your office, your boyfriend following you eagerly. You place yourself back in your chair while he wraps himself around your right leg, his tail moving to wrap securely around your ankle. 

You roll your eyes as he purrs in delight. “I have about another hour of work ahead of me, and if I were you, I would take that time to rest. I have no intentions of letting your behavior go unpunished, my love. If you’re going to act like a brat, I’m going to fuck you like one”. 

You smile as he gives a slight whine. At least there's one upside to putting up with his bad behavior.

🖤❤️💕💕❤️🖤

[bernardsbendystraws]

You Don’t Own Me

SERIES MASTERLIST

Chris Sturniolo lives by his own rules, refusing to be controlled. Some see him as a rebel, a troublemaker—but is that the full truth? Meanwhile, Y/N is focused on making the most of her last year of high school, determined to have a normal teenage experience. But when their worlds collide, they realize they may have more in common than they ever expected.

WARNINGS: COPYRIGHT NOTICE. Crying, controlling behavior, possessive behavior, toxic relationships

A/N: As Dr. Bridgett Mendler said (just listen to hurricane by queen bc I love her)

With love and big tits, Rose

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

P21: Storm Eye

I can feel the question bubbling in the air. 

Chris and I left this morning. I was starting to recognize familiar surroundings as he drove us back home, but I could sense him peeking over my shoulder, trying to glance at my phone. 

It’s pissing me off. 

I’m trying to text Shawn. Afterall, we’re still project partners and we’ve fallen behind compared to Matt and his partner. And I trust Shawn. At least more than I used to. 

“Who are you texting this early in the morning?” Chris asks, his tone mixed with a laugh that doesn’t seem exactly genuine. 

“Shawn. We have to work on our project and he always wakes up for gym shit, I guess,” I remark, watching from my peripheral as he stiffens next to me. 

My eyes roll as I watch his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. “Chris, we’re project partners, I can’t exactly—”

“Matt and Cole can work with you guys all together at our place.” he explains, his voice rough and strained as he bites on the inside of his cheek. 

The air turns silent, my teeth grinding together as I try to take a deep breath. My knees clutch, my foot lightly tapping on the bottom of the vehicle. 

“Chris,” I start, taking a deep huff of disbelief, “-he’s my partner. Matt and Cole are a lot farther then we are and—”

“So? You can still—”

“Oh my god.” I exclaim, my mouth agape from his rude interruption. My head turns. He stares at me with a stern expression, shrugging before placing his eyes back on the road. 

I shake my head, crossing my arms over my chest as I relax in my seat. 

“Shawn apologized. He’s the one who helped me at that party when my phone died and I couldn’t find Mia.” I point out. 

The slight sound of Chris tapping his palm on the steering wheel makes my body pulse with frustration. 

“The party when I found him on top of you while you were crying, right?” he questions. 

My eyes narrow. I lick over the sharp edges of my teeth. “Are you serious? I know it looked bad, but I explained it to you. Stop….just—just stop.” I breathe. 

I stare out the side window from the passenger seat. My body seems to gravitate towards the door and I mindlessly shift away from Chris. 

We pull into my driveway. Chris halts the car into park before placing his arm on the center console, looking over at me with intent. I cross my arms tighter as he reaches his hand out. He lets out a gruff sigh, shaking his head while rolling his eyes. 

“You’re being—-ugh. Excuse me for being a little paranoid about my girl when some creep—”

“Your girl?” I question, cutting him off as I cock an eyebrow at him. 

Chris shuts his eyes tightly, pulling his lips into a straight line before leaning back into his own seat, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

His girl? 

I was his and it wasn’t even a choice now? 

A man does something nice and apparently that means I’m automatically his property for him to control my decisions. 

Fuck that.

I grab my bag by my feet, shaking my head with utter disbelief. “You’re ridiculous. You don’t control me, Chris. It’s a school project, it’s not like I—”

“You could do online school like me,” he says, the look on his face making my expression fall flat as I realize how serious he is. “-you have friends, why do you want to even go when all it does is make you do dumb shit—like going to a fuckin’ party without even charging your damn phone.” he curses. 

Oh.

My eyes water with frustration and sadness. I sniff, pulling my hand on top of the door handle, huffing as I realize he’s turned on the child lock. 

“Let me out, Chris.” I direct. 

“Listen, I—”

“What more do you wanna say?” I spit, my eyes avoiding his as I wait for the dumb child lock to click. “-you already called me dumb, you already said I don’t need anymore friends—what else could you possibly need to say? Just…open the car. I’m not doing this right now.” I huff. 

The click of the child lock makes my lip tremble. I start to push the door open, crawling out before he can say another word.

He’s already said more than enough. 

___

My eyes stung from the amount of tears that poured down my face today. 

Everything sucked. 

The perfect day yesterday seemed to lead to the worst outcomes today. As soon as I walked in the house, I was grounded. My mom took my phone away, upset since she had seen me come home with a boy. 

She looked at me like I was some sort of prostitute. It was dramatic, really. 

But that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst of it was when I came across Baylen in the living room with a person I’d recognize anywhere—Ryan.

This was a day that felt like a true night terror, something that made any horror movie seem tolerable compared to reality. 

Baylen doesn’t know that I dated Ryan a while back. I never told him and Ryan promised to never tell. I knew Baylen would be livid. I dated a college guy—a guy his age—my sophomore year of high school. 

And that was something I couldn’t handle at the time. I already lost all of my friends due to Ryan, I didn’t wanna cause even more tension between Baylen and I.

But that man hurt me. 

He’s sitting in my living room, greeting me like we’ve never met, telling me how Baylen is gonna be his roommate next semester. He’s acting like he didn’t ruin me, like he wasn’t the reason I lost all my friends and my dignity. 

I don’t even have my phone to distract myself. The only thing I’m able to distract myself with is Chris, but even that leads to stress after our argument this morning. 

He’s a sweetheart, I know he is, it’s just difficult. Chris doesn’t know how to control his emotions when it comes to letting me be my own person, he thinks I’m dumb. 

I can’t go through that.

Not again. 

But he’s the only person who’s ever made me feel so understood. It was like his hands were created to touch me, like his limbs were molded to be tangled in my own. 

God, it hurts. 

The dial on my alarm clock keeps flicking past numbers, my eyes are heavy, but wide open. 

I can’t sleep. 

Not without him. 

___

2:22 A.M. 

No more tears are falling. I heard Ryan leave hours ago. The house is dead silent, almost too quiet for me to feel like I can take a deep breath. 

I’m still in Chris’ shirt. It was the only thing that made me feel a bit more at ease as I sat in my bay window, staring at the leaves shuffling on the branches from the wind. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

My body jolts, my eyes bulging as I look over to see a figure staring back at me. I place a hand over my heart, letting out a deep sigh as I quietly slide the window pane up. 

“Chris?” I whisper, my eyes squinting as I feel the cool night breeze drift into my room. 

He stares at me with sullen eyes, his face twisting as he reaches his hand inward, cupping my cheek gently. 

“I…have you been…have you been crying?” he asks, his voice cracking in a way that makes my face flush with the sensation of dry tears. 

I open my mouth to respond, but the second my lips part, it’s like the numb drought of emotions is cured by a dam being broken. 

Tears stream down my face. I feel him shift inward, crawling through the window before he pulls me into his lap. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry, fuck—’m so sorry.” he whispers, his body rocking me slightly as my legs dangle over the side of his thigh. 

Shaking my head in the crook of his neck, I try to speak up, my words coming out as more loud cries as I cover my mouth to muffle the noise. 

The last thing I need right now is for my mom to come into my room to see a boy at two in the morning. I can’t handle another thing going wrong right now. 

His jaw is clenched as he cradles me further into his hold, cradling me like a baby as I try to catch my breath. 

“N—no, not…wasn’t just you, I—” a hiccup interrupts my words. 

I feel him tighten his hold on my body, his fingers tracing comforting circles on my skin. 

“What’s wrong? Was it…was it Shawn?” he asks. 

I should be mad at the question, but I’m not. 

His voice is soft, genuine curiosity muffled as his fingers stop tracing my skin for a millisecond, almost as if he’s not sure he should be touching me.

“No. Not—just…hold me. Please.” I voice, clutching my hand into his sweatshirt, pulling him impossibly closer. 

Chris leaves no hesitation. He holds me tightly, his scent making my chest feel lighter with each breath. 

My cries soften to slight sniffles. He holds me close, rocking me slightly with a soothing motion that makes me feel impossibly comfortable. 

“Listen,” Chris mumbles, pulling me away from the crook of his neck just enough to be able to look at me. 

His eyes are brutally soft, a slight redness making the blue irises more hypnotizing. “-’m sorry. I’m trying and I know what I said was fucked up. There’s no excuse and I…I don’t wanna lose you. Whatever you want, whatever you need—I’m here. I won’t push, I’m—’m sorry.” he says. 

My body relaxes, a wave of relief pooling over my skin from his words. Some of the stress clouding my brain is relieved. 

His proclamation and his touch are enough to make me lean my cheek against his chest, resting in silence as he pets over the side of my cheek. 

“Thank you.” I sigh, my eyes closing as I feel him snuggle me closer to his chest. 

It feels good, it feels peaceful. 

My breath turns into even patterns, my brain drifting from conscious and subconscious thoughts as I focus on how soothing his touch feels. 

I shouldn’t be this relaxed right now. Every lingering anxiety floats into empty headspace as I focus on his breath fanning onto me from above. 

Everything feels okay when it’s like this—when I’m with him. 

[muzansfangs]

Il nome mio nessun saprà (no one will know my name).

Starring: The Salesman x f!reader; Seong Gi-hun x f!reader (platonic relationship); mention to Cho Sang-woo and Hwang Jun-ho;

Format: multi-chapters story;

Warnings: nsfw, vaginal fingering, angst, harrassment, the reader is European (italian to be specific), use of cigarettes, alcohol consumption, death, grieving, violence, blood, stalking, slight manipulation, age gap (reader is twenty-one);

Plot: enrolling in Law School in a foreign country was decidely a risky choice to make. Still, you had no one holding you back, but a wholesome reason to leave. Your late mother had eventually decided to disclose the truth about your biological father and now you were coping with the primordial yearning of finding him. You only had his name, a photograph and the rumor he probably still lived in South Korea. You spent months searching for him in Seoul, focusing on your studies until the night veiled the sky. And it was exactly during a rather uneventful saturday night that you luckily bumped in a stranger with a tailored suit and a everlasting eerie smile on his face. Brazenly, your eyes pleaded him to save you, to give you an alibi, and he did. Something blossomed between you two. But you did not know that the very man who had pulled the strings of your heart was soon going to screw up your entire life.

masterlist | to the next chapter

[𝟎𝟎𝟏] 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞.

You had not inherited any physical trait of him. The more you intently scrutinized the old photo of that stranger, your father, the harder it was believing you were his biological daughter. Born from a wild one- night stand of your late mother and that smiling korean man, who apparently had played his cards well enough to make that sweet tourist agree to spend the night in his company, you were now wondering why your mother even decided to give birth to you, raise you alone and, above all, why she did not bother contacting him to let him know he had a daughter in Europe. Tormenting yourself with a bunch of ‘what ifs’ was pointless. It was too late to ask such questions and no one could provide you logical answers anyway. You did not feel like pressing your mother, during the last days of her life, and your grandparents had died long before she confessed the identity of your father.

All you had to do was dealing with the empiric evidence of her shenanigans: your very existence and the picture of that man.

You had grieved her death alone, keeping your promise to look out for yourself and chase your dreams. It was the least you could do to show your gratitude to her for having sacrificed her own projects and aspirations to give you a decent life, a better future. The funeral was the hardest part. No relatives were around. To keep you company and deposit flowers by her grave there were just a couple of her friends and some of your old classmates: people who you had to say goodbye to, on your way out of the cemetery. Cutting ties was the best thing to do. You left the same night for starting a new life. The last thing you remembered before falling asleep on the plane were the droplets of rain streaming over the cold glass of the window.

The first chapter of your story was chaotic. Your mother was gone, you had enrolled in the Seoul Law School and were busy searching the city for your father. You had wisely started your hunt from the area your mother had told you she had met him at. You struggled communicating with the locals at first. Most of the people did not seem to understand you, or did not give a damn iota about you. However, you were fluent in English and some of the Korean students at the Campus were helping you out. They had taught you the basic sentences to use to survive, made sure you learned which trains to take to travel around, when you were alone, and some tactics to defend yourself from the native creeps. You gradually adapted to your new life-style. Summarizing the first months of your adventure, you could proudly say it was not going as bad as you had figured on the plane to Seoul. Whilst you were making new friends and growing familiar with some areas of the city, you began to cross off from the map the parks and streets you had looked for him throughout days and nights.

Your map was painted red.

Alas, though, you also soon began to lose hope on the chance to meet your father. When you successfully engaged in a seemingly good conversation with the owners of a restaurant, or pub, you were unable to provide them more informations about the man you were looking for. His name was Seong Gi-hun, he had hooked up with your mother when he was a rampant twenty-six-years-old man with a radiant smile and he bragged about a brilliant friend of his: Cho Sang-woo.

Too bad no one seem to know nor your father, neither the smartass he had befriended long ago.

Defeated, after another uneventful night, you were dragging your feet along the sidewalk, hoping to reach the right underground line to go back to your dorm. It was two in the morning, drunk people swayed around you in the cramped streets, the smell of cigarettes and alcohol permeated the air and you scrunched up your nose in disgust, careful not to step on the sharp, glimmering splinters of the umpteenth smashed bottle on your way. Despite that, it was not like you were not used to see the same scanario back in Europe as well. What probably left you uncomfortable was most likely the fact you could still hardly comprehend the language, let alone the slang, and you were wary of your surroundings. You felt like a mouse fallen in a pit of vipers.

You had almost made it to your destination, when you turned the corner and, unfortunately, were face to face with a group of snickering guys, beers in hands, leering at any woman passing by.

Well, crap. Odds were not in your favor.

Frantically, you whipped your head around, narrowing your eyes in search for an alternative road to take. Venturing further into the unknown was just as bad as proceeding that way. You could already sense the sickening feeling of their smoldering gazes on your frame and you were one hundred percent sure some of them had already noticed you standing a few feet away from them. You usually had a good sense of self-preservation, confiding both in your knowledge and your conscience. You were already doomed that night. Why had you even declined your new friend’s invitation to a party to explore a huge city you barely knew by night and, to cap it all, alone? That was the first mistake of the night. Waves of insults to your inexplicable stupidity began to pester your mind, the moment you took a sharp intake of breath and sped up to leave that group of men at your back.

The wolf-whistles piercing your ears did not make you falter. You kept your head high, eyes directed to the sign indicating entrace to the underground. Naively, you thought those folks were merely scaring off lonely women, you hoped they had no further purpose but that. Your stomach churned, upon hearing heavy footsteps approaching you from behind. How many of them were stalking you down? One, maybe two people at best. Regardless, you refused to glance above your shoulder.

“Hey! Do you speak English?” a voice asked you, the amused undertone making the hair on the back of your neck stand in fright. One. It was just one out of five, you tried to reassure yourself. If you just kept on marching to the platform and the train made it in time, you had a good chance to give the felon the slip.

Your lack of response and reaction made him chuckle darkly and you swore your heart was desperately attempting to break your ribcage and jump out of your chest. Like Hell you wanted to die like that. All you had to do was pretending he was not there.

You had begun to tear down the stairs, when you felt his hand enclosing your elbow and his large body glueing to your hip. Invading your personal space with no regards of limits made you see red. You scoffed, finally shooting an annoyed glance at the grinning stranger, who had abruptly forced you to stop in your tracks.

“Let me go” you quipped, ungraciously wriggling your arm to get free. His grip on you only tightened and you bit the insides of your cheeks not to wince in pain.

The guy beamed, tugging you closer to him once again, ecstatic about your determination and combative spirit “Oh, so you do speak English! — he began, wiggling his eyebrows up annoyingly, the stench of tobacco in his breath causing a scowl to cross your face — Where are you from, darling? France? Germany? England?”.

You snorted, jaw clenching, as you uncomfortably let your eyes flit downstairs to spot a potential source of help from someone on the platform. Much to your dismay, there was only a sleeping, battered old man, hand clutching some money in his hands for dear life. He did not look like he even had a home. How curious was it that you were busying yourself wondering how did he even own such a conspicuous amount of money, if his clothes were dirty and tattered? He had probably robbed someone.

Or so you supposed.

“My boyfriend is waiting for me downstairs! I do not think he will be happy to see what you are doing to me” you blurted out firmly, flashing a warning gaze at your aggressor, hoping he was going to desist from pesting you further. For a split second, you swore his eyes widened, contemplating whether you were bluffing, or actually giving him a possibility to escape a beating from your mysterious boyfriend.

You truly did your best in showcasing a confident attitude. Too bad he did not believe a word you had said and nudged you to walk down to the platform, rudely spitting on your shoes “Yeah? Where’s the lucky bastard? Let’s go meet him, okay?” he taunted you, pushing you down the remaining steps without thinking twice.

You squeaked out in fear, miraculously landing on your feet and quickly straightening your jacket, as you found back your balance. You hesitantly raised your face, glossy eyes inspecting the length of the platform to look for help. A cop, maybe. But no officer wandered down the underground at that time. It was late. No one was there.

No one, but a tall man in a fancy tailored suit and a suitcase in his hand. After all, odds were in your favor. You did not have much time ponder your decision. Briefly, you studied him. He was clearly older than you, there was a chance he actually spoke English and could connect the dots at your senseless words. You had no other choice, in the end. You gave it your best shot. A shuddery breath left your lips, as you pointed at the tall man and made sure that thug followed your gaze. Lying was not in your style. However, you knew that the basic animal instinct of striving to survive was kicking in.

You smiled, genuinely even, feeling the muscles of your cheeks stretching in a loving, enthusiastic smile directed to the stranger. He had caught a glimpse of you in his peripheral. How could he not, when you had practically been shoved downstairs and had landed in such an unladylike fall? Something was off. And he knew it, he could see it in the shimmering tears prickling your eyes, when you opened your arms and snuggled against his chest, as if you two were meant to meet.

His masculine cologne ungulfed you, one calloused hand threading through your hair, surprisingly not to yank you off of him. And in that instant, you knew you were safe. A stranger had harassed you and a stranger was saving your life. You closed your eyes, reluctantly pulling away from the tall man to meet his eyes. Two dark pools of ink met your eyes, swallowing you whole as he smiled back down at you. Dear God, he was handsome. Unbelievably good-looking. Probably too handsome to be real and you foolishly asked yourself if you had been shot dead by the felon and had just landed in Heaven.

“He’s my boyfriend” you finally stated, though, bashfully pulling your gaze off of your savior’s face to meet the other guy’s gaze. The nightmare was not over yet.

Hands tucked in the pockets of his ripped jeans, he snorted, eyeing you two suspiciously. Unexpectedly, before any of you could say another word, the old man who was napping on the platform groggily stood up and stared at you in total shock.

His face was horrified, unsteady steps leading him next to the arrogant guy who had hollered at you a few moments ago. The man tried to usher him out of the station, all the while slurring indistinct korean words you failed to both catch and understand. The younger one clearly did not appreciate whatever the tramp had told him and knocked him down with a punch straight on his nose. You shrieked, hand clasped over your mouth, as the thug dashed away and stared at the bleeding man on the floor.

He was still alive, thankfully, and you began to fumble in your bag for a tissue to hand him. The man in a suit, however, anticipated you and walked towards the drunk man grumbling on the floor. Once again, the two of them cut you out of the conversation by speaking korean. This time around, though, you were able to understand something along the lines of ‘change the station, he will come back for you’.

“Can I help you somehow?” you shyly asked, intruppting them, as you watched the man wipe the blood off of his face and the tall guy turn his attention back on you.

He smiled, again. Actually, you did not seem to recall a moment he had stopped smiling. You shivered, eyes darting away from him not to expose yourself and your evident attraction towards him. He really had no reason to be that attractive.

“I should be the one asking you that. Are you alright, miss?” he inquired, keeping a comfortable distance between you two. How considerate of him sparing you the embarrassment of more unsolicited physical contact with him, after you had literally buried your face in his chest like an ostrich would with the sand. You thought he probably must have felt a great amount of discomfort at holding you in his arms protectively.

You nodded your head, glad to see he could speak English as well “I am good, thanks for asking… And for your help too. I did not mean to be a burden” you apologized, bowing your head to excuse yourself once again.

“It’s nothing. I did not have to get rid of that man, did I? — he replied casually, straighening his tie absentmindedly with his free hand — I can not help, though, but wonder why a foreign girl is down the streets, all by herself, in the dead of the night. It’s dangerous” he reasoned, his tight smile pinning you on the spot once again. Well, he was right.

Also, it was only natural for an older man to question a girl that could have probably been his daughter about her disputable choices.

“I know! I’ve been reckless… But I think young and desperate people make such mistakes, once in a while” you vaguely said, shrugging, and transfixing your gaze on the rails to avoid his cold eyes.

You did not expect the conversation to continue. You blinked skeptically, when he fed the flame.

“Desperate, you say? What troubles might gnaw at a young girl’s stomach, besides graduation and dating?” he queried your assertion, seemingly interested in your story. A late night talk with a stranger in a desolate underground was not exectly how you expected your exploration to end. He did not seem to have ill intentions. He was probably just a tired man working in a bank, or a CEO of some important company, waiting for his train to go and get some well-deserved rest. At least, that is what you thought judging from his sophisticated way to carry himself and the cocky aura he radiated.

You exhaled softly through your nose, a melancholic smile curving your lips “Well, it’s… It’s complicated. I’ve just moved to Korea. I remember wanting to study aboard since I was a kid. — you began, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, one of the habits you did not seem ready to get rid of — And I’m glad to be here, don’t get me wrong. The thing is I’ve chosen this Country because I was told my biological father lives here” you admitted, folding your arms against your chest protectively.

Honesty. A virtue to pursue, but a fatal flaw, when you meet a wolf in sheep clothing.

“I see. Let me guess, you found him and he is far from the man you expected him to be?”.

“Nothing like that. I can’t find him”.

A few seconds of silence blanketed the station. Opening up to a stranger you deemed to be a decent man was weird per se. You were aware of it. However, loneliness probably was starting to get the best of you. An adult figure to confide in was everything you needed but did not have. Maybe this was the main reason why you relentlessly searched for your father. Family was important to you.

The man hummed. The next thing you knew he was standing closer, head cocked to the side and a gentle expression on his face “You look discouraged. It is understable. — he began, the shadow of a smirk creasing his lips — How many informations you have about him?” he asked you then, causing you to shake your head and reach for his picture in your small bag.

You flipped it around, hopelessly wishing in a positive feedback, to show it to him “This picture, his name and that he had a smart friend: Cho Sang-woo”.

For a moment, you thought he actually had an answer to provide you, or a suggestion. Unfortunately, he lowered his gaze and shook his head. Obviously, you were back to the start. Pushing your luck was all you could do to solve the puzzle.

“This time around, I can’t really help you. You should probably hire a private detective” he suggested you flatly, locking eyes with you as you two heard the familiar toot of the train entering the station.

You let out a bitter laughter “Non tutti sono ricchi come te¹” you whispered under your breath, confiding your native language could somehow conceal your demotivation and financial issues. All you had was enough to simply take care of your carreer. You could not afford to pay a man to track down your father.

The sliding doors opened and you entered the train, slightly taken aback by the fact he did not. What the Hell was he even doing there? He stood right in front of you, back straight as a ramrod, hand raising to wave at you with his trademark smirk. You furrowed your eyebrows, lips parting to say your goodbye, when his reply left you speechless.

“Buona fortuna ² ”.

Colors drained from your face the moment he made it loud and clear he spoke italian. Your mortified expression might have spoken volumes, for he quirked his eyebrows up and nodded his head in your direction. When the doors closed, you slumped onto an empty seat, glad you were probably not going to meet that handsome man ever again in your life. What a disgraceful day it had been. Especially for that drunk man you had totally forgotten about, lost in your train of thoughts.

Nearly two weeks later, you were gawking at a letter in your mailbox. Someone knew your address, your name and the fact you were looking for your father. Your hands were shaking, fingertips running over the texture of the paper, nails scraping it in a comforting sound. You could not deny your head began to spin and you were forced to curl yourself up in a ball over your small bed. The black capital letters standing out on the white card in front of you were truly a manna from Heaven, but for all you knew it could have been also a letter from the haunts of Hell.

No one knew you were looking for Cho Sang-woo and Seong Gi-hun. No one, really. Not even your new friends from the courses you had signed up to were that well-informed. There was only one person who knew those name, but you highly doubted he even recalled them. And, additionally, he did not know yours. Merely thinking about that stud made a sense of uneasiness set in your stomach. You had hugged him out of no where, you had undirectly labeled him as a filthy, selfish rich man who had money to throw away. Gosh, you felt so miserable and humiliated when he had talked back to you effortlessly in your own language. He had left quite the impression on you. Then again, he did not give off the vibes of a delinquent.

Now, however, it was not the right time to daydream about him. To distract yourself from reminiscing about your mistakes, you focused on the dossier you had received.

“Cho Sang-woo, age fourty-six. Investment banker at the Joy Investments. He usually arrives at his workplace around eight o’clock in the morning”.

Well, this man was not your father. However, some informations about where to find his so-called best friend could help anyway. There was a high possibility Mr. Cho was still in touch with him and therefore he could give you his address. You wished you could thank whoever had sent you that letter, but the pacakge was unsigned. Your savior seemed to want to remain incognito. Savior. That word sound bittersweet, giving the circumstances. The mysterious person that had sent those informations had been, without the shadow of a doubt, watching you, eavesdropping your conversations, stalking you. The mere idea of someone sneaking in your dorm, when you were fast asleep, or when you were attending your classes sent frissons over your skin. You refused to even picture a hooded stranger following you around. Something did not quite make sense, though.

If you had a stalker, why was he helping you out?

You huffed, fingers running through your hair in distress, as you ultimately decided to both make good use of the informations you had received and protect yourself from any potential threat lurking in the shadows.

The following day, you were sipping on a coffee in your new friend’s car. Hwang Ju-ho, a young cop who had taken pity on you, when you had just landed in Seoul and had no idea of where to go, or how to reach your destination. He had been kind to you, even leaving you his number in case you needed something. And you did.

“Let me get this straight. You have been asking random people around Seoul if they knew your father, or this Cho Sang-woo for three months straight?” he asked you, pulling over in a still empty parking lot. The sky was grey, the drizzle was becoming a downpour and you had not bothered to take an umbrella with you. Bad decision, undoubtedly.

“Exactly” you shortly commented, head lolling against the headrest of the passenger seat. You were drained, as of late. Studying hard for learning the local language and keeping up with yours courses was consuming you to the bone. Your lack of sleep was the cherry on top. You wondered when your body was going to give up and you finally reached the infamous burn-out.

Ju-ho rested his forearms on the top of the steering wheel, dark eyes scanning the horizon “And yesterday you found an anonymous letter in your mailbox with your father’s friend data in it?” he pressed again, earning a soft hum of approval from you.

You had not revealed too many informations to him about Cho Sang-woo, except for the fact he worked in the modern building in a part of the city you had yet to visit and that you had reached out for him to help you out. You had improved your Korean, therefore you did not even need his assistance in communicating with the so-called genius of the Department of Economics of Seoul. The small picture of him, a polaroid, you had found in the package along the letter showed a distinguished man with square glasses, an impeccable suit and a cold look in his eyes. Hopefully, he was not an asshole.

You had already thought about what to ask him and how. Allegedly, you were more than ready, enthusiastic at the idea of finally having a chance to find your dad. You wondered if he was a good man and if he had his own new family. In that case, was he going to accept you in his life?

Your mind went back to that unglorious night, to the man in a suit and his question: “Let me guess, you found him and he is far from the man you expected him to be?”.

No. He was wrong. He had to be wrong. Deep down, you hoped to have a heartwarming reunion with your father, one of those cliché, stereotypical scenes you had watched countless times in the movies. You had deeply craved a father figure in your life. Time passed, though, and, albeit you did not grow up with your dad, your dream to look at a man and call him ‘dad’ never diminished in you. At the end of the day, you were still the innocent little girl who asked Santa to let you meet your father. However he was, wherever he was.

To interrupt yout stream of consciousness was Ju-ho, clearing his throat “If you don’t want me to help you, why am I here? I could take care of this pretty easily, you know?” he said, leaning his back on the seat and glancing at you in curiosity.

“You are helping me. I needed a lift and someone to watch my back. You are here and this is more than enough for me to be grateful to you” you promptly said, right before you caught a glimpse of a man in a black suit and matching umbrella heading towards the entrance of the building. There he was: Cho Sang-woo, tall and confident, following the routine the snout had indicated in the letter.

You quickly exchanged a knowing look with Ju-ho, before opening the car door and jogging towards your father’s best friend. It was pouring and, in a matter of seconds, you were soaked. Your hair were stuck on your face, forehead, neck. Your clothes clinging to your body uncomfortably made it hard to speed up more.

Eventually, though, you caught up with him. His dark eyes met yours, so wide and full of hope. You were a panting mess, hands wiping away the droplets of water falling from your lashes, as he stared you down wearily. Who exactly were you? A foreigner, that much was pretty evident.

“Sir! Do you have a minute?” you started, hand already diving in your bag to retrive your father’s photo. He had no time to waste and you honestly wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.

“Who are you? I have no money this month. I have already—”.

Money? You frowned, shaking your head, before showing him the picture of your father, tearful eyes boring into his ones, so unaffected and devoid of emotions. He seemed tense, you would have even dared to say agitated and you were blaming it on the fact he was being held back by a stranger before he could go to work.

“You’re Cho Sang-woo, right? — you asked, blinking quickly to clear your vision — Do you know this man? He’s my dad… I’m looking for him! You were friends, or so I’ve been told by my mother” you fretted to explain, perfectly knowing you were sounding like a maniac.

You did not resemble your dad in the slightest. Sang-woo gazed into your eyes, then at the photograph you were holding before him. Reading this man was impossible. He blankly stared at you, shutting you out of his head. The silence probably lasted a few seconds, before he degnified you with a dry answer.

“Go back home, kid” he dispassionately stated, resuming his walk without sparing you a glance.

But you had no home to go back to. You were looking for a place to call home, for a person to feel like home. You refused to accept such a refusal. This man could obviously help you, but he was downright choosing to ignore you. Were you so undeserving of a father?

“I don’t have a home anymore, sir! — you called after him, standing right where you were, gaze on the cobblestone — Please, I really need to find my father. He’s all I have now. He’s all that is left of… Of my family” you admitted, hating how your voice cracked upon realizing you indeed had nothing else besides the hope to be reunited with your biological dad.

Sang-woo halted, his back facing you as he seemed to elaborate what you had just said. Each second passing without an answer hurt you, so much that the droplets of water splashing on your face, on your clothes felt like boiling lava sizzling your skin.

Maybe, your life was about to change. Your destiny was all in this man’s hands.

“He already has a family. If you love your father, you should keep your distance. He lived perfectly fine without you until now. Would you really want to disrupt his peace and bear the burden of having ruined his life?” he deadpanned, before walking off with your shattered heart in his hand and leaving a desolation behind him.

The only audible sound was the rain pattering against the parked cars, over your skin, on the skyscrapers. It hurt. It hurt immensely. You wondered if, amidst the soothing sound of the water cascading steadily from the sky, Cho Sang-woo had heard a far way different sound. The horrible noise of a fragile heart exploding into splinters so tiny they could not be put together again.

Your first impulse was to chase after him, shout at his face you deserved to be happy too, that this was not his damn business. Your feet, though, did not move. They were glued to the ground, they were one thing with the asphalt. Your fingers twitched, your father’s photograph slipping through them, landing on a puddle.

The following days went on monotonously. You no longer bothered searching for him. Even if you knew Mr. Cho had no saying in your life, he had truly left you with so many doubts and, maybe, he had a point. If your father was happy, you had no right to destroy his life, his relationship with his wife and traumatize your step-siblings. All you did was studying, bonding with your classmates and, occasionally, joining them to some parties.

It was once again a Saturday night, when you found yourself in a discotheque. The famous Nb2 Club, located in Hongdae, was swarmed with people dancing. Most of them were drunk, out of their minds, fornicating with strangers. You, on the other hand, were not really in the good state of mind to drink your problems away. After a single shot to celebrate the birthday girl, you had incessantly tried to find an excuse to leave. Unfortunately, though, you had been dragged to the dance floor and you were now desperately trying to districate yourself out of that sea of tipsy people swaying around.

The neon lights in the dimly illuminated room made it hardly feasible to individuate the exit. You kept on pushing people around, elbowing your way to the stairs, until you whipped your head around and you froze solid.

This must have been an hallucination.

Or this is the lie you told yourself, when a flash of red lights flickered over a man in a suit. A man you knew. A man you did not expect to run into once again, especially in place like this. Your life was an entire circus.

You were petrified, more out of shock, than the embarrassment you had felt during your first encounter. You had thought about it for days, unable to get that stupid grin of his out of your head. You blinked, skeptically staring at that shadow, until the man was struck by the light again. You had even approached him, standing only a palm away from his towering figure, as you found out once again that he was already grinning down at you. Bloody Hell, he was really there.

Your fake boyfriend for a night. The man you had insulted, hoping he did not speak italian.

“Buonasera, signorina ³” he greeted you, cold sweat collecting in the back of your neck, as you stupidly looked up at him.

You did not even have an idea of how you had successfully heard him, but you did. Handsome as the last time you had met him, he did not have his briefcase with him, but he had opted for yet another set of suit and tie. You sighed, darting your eyes away in nervousness. You did not feel underdressed this time. Still, your choice of clothes was what your roommate had labeled as ‘dressed to kill any man’.

You were showing a lot of cleavage and your short black dress barely reached your upper thighs.

“What are you doing here?” you asked him then, careful to ignore his provocation.

“I could ask you the same question, ma’am. Hopefully, you are not chasing down your father alone again”.

You rolled your eyes, gesturing at your high heels “Fair enough. To answer your question, definitely not. I was actually trying to leave this place. My feet are stinging” you decided to say, noticing his dark eyes travelling down your form, before factually inspecting your feet.

He smiled again “By sheer coincidence, I was leaving too. I had a business meeting, but it’s concluded. Would you like for me to lead you out of here? I know about a secondary exit easy to reach” he suggested, chivalrously holding his hand out for you to grasp.

This was hazardous, but he seemed to be genuine. Just like that Saturday night. He had saved you, he had been polite. Only a little too cocky, but not mischivious. Once out, you could always call a taxi and go back to your dorm. You decided to trust him, your smaller hand gripping his delicately as you glanced at your group of friends one last time, before nodding at him.

“Please, lead the way” you agreed, a faint smile gracing your red-painted lips, as he glared at a couple of people occupying the access to a corridor and walked past them without any qualms of the possible consequences.

You just followed him, inhaling deeply as he opened a door and let you step outside first. The chilly air of the night bit your skin, goosebumps raising on your flesh as you folded your arms against your chest to warm yourself up out of reflex. You were suprisingly at the end of the line of people waiting to enter, fortunately already on the main street. You sighed, turning towards him with yet another small smile on your lips.

“Thanks. Apparently, you have a knack for saving me in different situations” you noted, bowing your head a little, as he closed the door behind himself.

The businessman straightened his back “Perhaps. — he replied, eyeing your shivering form in interest — What are you going to do now?”.

“Just calling a taxi and spending the rest of the night at my dorm”.

“A taxi? It’s pretty late. We’re at Hongdae. I don’t think there’s a driver available, miss. — he reasoned, hand slithering into the pocket of his slacks, a clinking sound catching your attention — My car’s parked nearby. I could easily drive you home” he offered, dark eyes devouring yours in a subtle dance of attraction. He was way too discreet and smooth, but you were not a fool.

He had not said anything compromising, yet he had piqued your interest and, definitely, your whole attention. The question was: did you want to play along? Probably, it was not a good idea. He was older, more than twenty years older than you. Still, he had been kind to you. He had offered you protection that night, he had helped you out of the disco. He was charming. And, admittedly, you were also touch-starved and, horribly, lonely.

But you knew he was not going to do anything for free.

You looked at your feet, nervously sinking your foreteeth in your bottom lip “Where’s the catch?”.

He tilted his head to the side, pulling his hand holding the keys out of his pocket “I wouldn’t call it a ‘catch’. But, actually, I was hoping to treat you with a glass of fine wine. Obviously, if you agree” he confessed, not batting an eye and awaiting patiently for you to make up your mind.

Wine. Alone with him.

“Where?” you asked him then, heart inexplicably skipping a beat the moment shrugged his jacket off of his shoulders and elegantly draped it over your naked ones. His cologne, just like that night, pierced your nostrils and you let out an imperceptible sigh at the comforting feeling of someone actually looking out for you.

“My apartment”.

Shit. Well, you knew the risks of following a man home. But you were young, free, with some experience at your back. Why not letting loose once ever in your life?

“And the brand of the wine?” you inquired, only for him to smile wider at you. He was effortlessly handsome.

“What about a Chianti? I’m sure you know this one”.

“Don’t make me regret it”.

You had not really paid attention to the road. He drove you safely to yet another part of the city you were not familiar with, charming you with his impeccable portamento behavior and a refined taste in music. He knew some italian words because he liked Opera.

You spent the time in the car listening to Rossini, Verdi and Puccini. Gradually, you relaxed in his presence and, before you knew it, you were sitting on the leather couch of his living room. A goblet of half-finished Chianti in your hand, you were conversing with him about your struggles to adapt to the Country.

Talking to him was easy. Too easy. Were you really that surprised you even told him about your progresses with your research for your father? Not really.

“The main issue was the language. Not everyone speaks English and… You are the only person I have met who understands some italian” you told him, watching him swirl the remaining wine in his goblet absent-mindedly.

He had loosened his necktie, the jacket he had lended to you now discarded on armrest of the sofa. His dark eyes glinted in something you failed to fully comprehend. He did not seem inhebriated, not yet. But rather passionate, as he took a sip from his glass before settling it down on the glass coffee table at his feet.

You mimicked his actions, tiredly accomodating yourself against the soft backrest. He hummed, shifting on his seat and deliberately sliding closer to you. Your head was reclined, the illumination casting enticing shadows over his face. You felt almost ashamed for the desire you felt for him, for a complete stranger.

“You have improved in Korean, though. Practice leads to progresses— he noted, his hot breath wafting over your face like a gloved stroke on your cheek — Aren’t you dying to go back to Mr. Cho and tell him in a perfect Korean that he is not in the position to judge you?”.

You chuckled this time, eyes closing “If I were to do that, I would not be that polite and formal”.

“But elegance suits you, ma’am. Foul language is not necessary to manifest your anger” he chided you, probably in paternalistic way you found odd, but not out of place.

“Homicide is illegal” you pointed out, your sarcasm and dark humor rolling out of your tongue like your second language.

He hesitated for a split second, his lips curving in a smirk at your remark. He glanced at his wristwatch briefly, before his eyes searched for yours again “It’s three in the morning. Would you like for me to take you back home?”.

He was giving you a choice. He had not touched you inappropriately, he had merely sat close to you, offered you wine, let you take some pent up frustration out by listening to your story silently. He had been an absolute gentleman. Maybe, this was the reason why you scooted even closer to him, hand gently resting over his to stop him.

Your noses brushed together, tentatively experimenting what it would have felt like to breathe him in. He reached his hand up, cupping your cheek and angling your head in a optimal position to let your lips lock. You held your breath, half-lidded eyes boring into his, dilated, lust filled.

“Is that a no?”.

You swallowed thickly “Affermative, sir”.

He hummed, tongue sweeping out of his mouth to lick your lips, tasting you, before finally opening his mouth and involving you in a slow, intimate kiss you had long forgotten could give butterflies to your stomach. He was a good kisser. His large free hand travelling down your curves, squeezing you hip to prompt you to straddle his lap.

You did not break the kiss, a soft moan leaving your mouth, when he bucked his hips up and pressed you down on his crotch.

“How far can I go?” he asked you huskily, your spine arching when he began to leave a trail of open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your neck.

Oh, sweet God, you had lost your capacity of speaking.

Rolling your hips down to meet his movements, you whined and ran your fingers through his thick hair, pulling on the strands as he raised the hem of your skirt to expose your lower regions entirely.

“I don’t mind…” you mumbled, flicking your gaze down to meet his black-pitch orbs. You were screwed.

His hand slipped hastily beneath the fabric of your underwear, deft fingers seeking and finding your clitoris. He flicked it expertily, groaning softly at your wetness coating his digits. You were soaked, needy whimpers of pleasure escaping your parted lips as you felt your hole clenching around nothing, until he began to tease the entrance.

You cried out in bliss, his index sliding in without meeting resistance, soon followed by a second finger. The stretch was good, nothing compared to your own touch or the ones from your previous partners. He knew what pace drove you insane, what you liked, your body language was the equivalent of an opened book to him.

“Flawless” he whispered in your ear.

You wanted to moan out his name, but you realized you both had not introduced yourselves yet. He thrusted his fingers up in your core, thumb rubbing your throbbing clitoris as you panted above his head.

“W-What’s your name?” you breathed out, glossy eyes peering down at him.

He did not answer, instead biting the tender spot between your jawline and your neck. It was enough, your body had enough. Your inner walls clenched tightly around his fingers, body jerking, as your orgasm hit you like a violent wave crashing against the shore. You trembled, body slumping against his as he enclosed your waist in his arms. His lips grazed the shell of your ear, a feather-like kiss sending frissons over your body.

“I got you, Y/N”.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hello there and thank you for having read my work. This is the first chapter of a new series I have come up with for Squid Game. The main couple will be The Salesman x reader, but I don’t and can’t promise you won’t see a glimpse of another pair throughout the story. It won’t obviously last, because well… It’s a Salesman x reader story. The title “Il nome mio nessun saprà” translated as “No one will know my name” is taken from the song played by the Salesman during the Russian roulette game with the two former loan sharks. Comments and opinions are greatly appreciated!

Love,

Luce

VOCABULARY.

1. Non tutti sono ricchi come te: not everyone is as rich as you are;

2. Buona fortuna: good luck;

3. Buonasera, signorina: good evening, miss.

CREDITS FOR THE DIVIDERS: @cafekitsune

[gojonanami]

[ last updated: 10/25/2024 ]

‧ ˚. PROFESSOR GETO SERIES ↳ Professor Suguru Geto is a renown ethics professor, and you're a straight A student whose GPA he's trying to ruin. You're more intent on making him see your brilliance -- but you get more than you bargained for, when the two of you learn about what you owe to each other.

‧ ˚. PROFESSOR GOJO SERIES↳ Professor Satoru Gojo had never failed at anything -- until his latest research project. That's why he had found himself at a weeklong conference, where he discovers the perfect distraction -- you. And he can't help but be drawn to you - even after he finds out that you're the one person he's trying to avoid most

‧ ˚. SATORU GOJO

seeing you tonight, its a bad idea right? | smut, fluff ↳ seeing your ex is always a bad idea, except when its satoru gojo.

bigger than the whole sky | angst, fluff, manga spoilers ↳ before his fight, you and satoru have an honest conversation about the future.

dessert before dinner | smut, fluff ↳ satoru can't wait to have you until you get back from the sister school event, so he plies you with sweet words until you agree to have dessert before dinner.

all's fair (in love and mergers) | long fic, smut, fluff, bffs to enemies to lovers ↳ you're not sure what's worse -- being an arranged marriage or being an arranged marriage with the person who used to be your best friend.

three's a crowd (ft. suguru geto) | long fic, au, smut, fluff ↳ professors satoru gojo and suguru geto rarely wanted the same thing at the same time -- that was until you.

bloodsucker | smut, dark ↳ you had avoided your ex for so long, only to run into him at a halloween party, and he's the same as ever but has his teeth always been that sharp?

got you | smut, dark ↳ satoru finally found you -- and he's not going to let you go this time.

is it over now | angst, fluff, smut ↳ suguru thinks the only way you'll leave him is if he lies to you about cheating on him - and it is. but turns out, you're not so easy to leave - for him and his best friend (ft. satoru gojo). "if you want, i can come inside?" | fluff, crack, domestic ↳ nobara spots gojo with a sorcerer she's never seen before and of course hijinks ensue (aka hearing gojo's english va (kaiji tang) say the above line in apothecary diaries and i lost my mind).

i wanna show you off | sugar daddy au, smut, fluff, slight angst ↳ when you accompany your friends to a bar rich men and women frequent, you catch the eye of a certain white-haired rich man, who is more than willing to spoil you

tastes sweeter on your lips | fluff ↳ on a rare day off, you decide to take care of the strongest sorcerer - with something very sweet.

the doctor is in | smut, fluff, au ↳ when you go to your annual check-up, you didn't think you'd be crushing on your doctor - or that he's conduct such an in-depth examination.

twenty-nine | fluff, angst, crack ↳ it's gojo's birthday, and he can't help but reflect on what birthdays have meant to him over the years, especially the year you decide you don't really want to do anything for his birthday (but it turns out you do).

sit in my lap | fluff, crack, domesticity ↳ you and satoru take your daughter to see santa at the mall, and satoru proves that he's just as much of a match for his daughter, as he is for you.

just a little longer | fluff, angst ↳ after geto defects, you find yourself on a roof of a building wondering where things went wrong - and you're not the only one.

sweet nothing | fluff, angst ↳ satoru always comes running home to your sweet nothings -- except this time.

lower your guard | fluff, smut, au, longfic ↳ after the gojo family receives threats to their lives, you're hired to protect the heir to the company, satoru gojo - you just didn't realize how charming the rich heir would be - and just how hard it would be to resist his advances. don't want any other shade of blue but you | fluff, smut, fake dating, longfic ↳ you can't help but say yes when your longtime crush asks you to be his fake girlfriend for a year to get the gojo clan to stop arranging marriage proposals for him. but little did you know, he would be doing both of you a favor. love means to say goodbye | multi-lives au, fluff, smut, angst, jjk manga spoilers ↳ "would we love each other in every life?" it's the question you asked satoru the night before his battle, and he replied that, of course you would. but did that promise create a curse -- or were you both always cursed to begin with when it came to love? yakuza fiance (ft. suguru geto) | smut, yakuza au, fluff, threesome ↳ you had no patience for the yakuza lifestyle your grandfather had -- you wanted to live a normal life, but when it leaks that your grandfather is in talks to have you engaged to one of two yakuza heirs -- you realize you're in deeper than you thought -- especially when they both fall in love with you.

a house is not a home | canon au, fluff, suggestive ↳ you come home after a long day of work unable to find the person you call home anywhere — until you reach the bedroom (househusband gojo).

just wanna fuck with you, just to make up with you! | smut, modern au, fluff ↳ satoru gojo is the man everyone wants, except you - he pushed you away after you had your daughter, you divorced him. so what happens when he comes to pick up your daughter for his weekend, and he finds you ready for a date?

rumor has it that my best friend loves you (and i do too!) | smut, actor au, fluff ↳ rumors swirl about a love triangle between you and your two heart throb co-stars on the set of jujutsu kaisen. except in this case, you and your two co-stars are happily dating. but what happens when you get casted in a movie where they want you to have a PR relationship with your co-star? especially when your bfs find out who it is

break my soul in two (but you're right here) | angst, manga spoilers ↳ satoru showed no concern for himself -- so you had to, even if no one else would.

beat the heat | smut, fluff ↳ it’s a heatwave in tokyo and who better to spend it with than satoru, who has an interesting idea of how to pass the time — fucking the heat away.

feral for you | fluff, smut, angst ↳ satoru gojo rarely loses his cool. except when it comes to you. so when you get taken, he takes matters into his own hands to find out who did it and make them pay.

yours to keep | childhood friends au, fluff, eventual smut, angst ↳ satoru gojo fell in love with you from the moment he met you at eight years old. and when he sees you again, he knows — he has to make you his.

the honored one | smut, manga spoilers, canon-divergent au ↳ it's your duty as the wife of the clan head to help your husband get dressed -- even for battle. but that didn't mean he couldn't spend some time undressing you.

‧ ˚. SUGURU GETO

meant to be | smut, dark ↳ when Suguru defects, he asks you to come with him -- but he's not going to take no for an answer.

three's a crowd (ft. satoru gojo) | long fic, au, smut, fluff ↳ professors satoru gojo and suguru geto rarely wanted the same thing at the same time -- that was until you.

is it over now (ft. satoru gojo) | angst, fluff, smut ↳ suguru thinks the only way you'll leave him is if he lies to you about cheating on him - and it is. but turns out, you're not so easy to leave -- for him and his best friend

might hurt | fluff, crack ↳ suguru's popularity is truly a curse, especially when he gets hit on right in front of you. luckily, you both know how to handle those situations.

i just want to fuck all night | smut, fluff, sex pollen ↳ after swallowing a curse, geto finds his body in an uncontrollable state of arousal, and who better help him cure it than you?

would it be enough if i could never give you peace? | fluff, angst, smut ↳ suguru's birthday spent with you is like a dream -- the perfect day spent in bliss, but what happens when the dream has to come to an end?

yakuza fiance (ft. satoru gojo) | smut, yakuza au, fluff, threesome ↳ you had no patience for the yakuza lifestyle your grandfather had -- you wanted to live a normal life, but when it leaks that your grandfather is in talks to have you engaged to one of two yakuza heirs -- you realize you're in deeper than you thought -- especially when they both fall in love with you.

‧ ˚. KENTO NANAMI

no regrets | hurt/comfort, fluff, angst ↳ when nanami is injured from his fight with mahito, you're sent to pick him up. and both of your careful avoidance of your feelings for each other comes crumbling down.

armed and dangerous | smut ↳ nanami's arms were always so nice around your throat, but you never tried having his arm between your legs before, until.

good girls get backshots | smut ↳ nanami has always been a gentleman, but he finally decides to play rough and mark you up -- at your request.

five times nanami wanted to propose but didn't | angst, fluff, smut ↳ nanami wanted to propose to you so many times - but it was never the right time, and then, there was no time left.

best part of my day | fluff, domesticity ↳ on a bad day, you give nanami just what he needs, and remind him why you are truly the best part of his day.

all the time in the world | fluff, hurt/comfort ↳ after shibuya, nanami lets you tend to his burns and have an honest discussion about what happened there and what it means for your future. but i'm a fire (and i'll keep your brittle heart warm) | fluff, hurt/comfort, smut, au ↳ throughout your years of jujutsu tech, you take care of kento, whether its a wound from a curse or a simple cut his finger -- and when he returns he finds you still ready to take care of him -- even after shibuya.

‧ ˚. YUTA OKKOTSU

↳ coming soon :)

‧ ˚. CHOSO KAMO

it's a need | hurt/comfort, smut, fluff ↳ after you take an attack meant for him, choso can't seem to understand why -- so you show him just how important he is to you.

hey emo boy! | fluff, smut, au ↳ saw this boy at the mall last week. got the kind of look to make me freak. wanna fuck in the back of the hot topic?

best friend's brother is the one for me! | fluff, au, smut, bedsharing ↳ you've been asked whether you and yuji are together a million times - but the truth is his brother is more your type -- so what happens when you end up sharing a bed one night?

just one more bite! | fluff, modern au, smut, vampire au ↳ choso kamo is your coworker who seems to hate your guts - even though you're both always stuck working together, but the only reason he does is because he wants nothing more than to eat you up -- blood and all.

‧ ˚. RYOMEN SUKUNA

paint the town red | smut, dark, au ↳ you've always been a goody two shoes -- or so your friends say -- so what happens when you decide to do the first bad thing you've ever attempted and try summoning a demon -- and it actually works?

the girl next door | smut, age gap, modern au ↳ you had grown up next door to the itadoris, but you never had met their uncle. and for good reason, he had spent the majority of his life in and out of jail. but now he was finally out, and he only had one goal in mind -- getting you in his bed.

‧ ˚. YUJI ITADORI

don't want you like a best friend! | best friends to lovers, fluff, fwb, smut, au ↳ yuji itadori has been your best friend since you were kids, and when he offers you to teach you how to fuck, you don't expect him to be able to find his way into your heart too.

jealousy, jealousy | smut

which of the men whimper | smut

spooning the dilfs | fluff

jjk men and if they're good at singing | crack

all tied up | smut

househusband suguru

househusband nanami househusband gojo (1) (2) (3)

mindreader nanami

geto swallowing a aphrodisiac curse

gojo - maybe in another life

guitarist! suguru x opera singer! reader (1) (2) (3)

frat boy! suguru x nerd! reader (1) (2) (3)

curse! suguru (1) (2) (3) bringing suguru back to life

[hamilton-here]

Hey! I know requests are closed but I just had to send this before I forget it (you’re just the best, so I had to send it to you, you can save it for whenever you open requests again if you want, or just delete it).

So, my idea is (I got it when reading your latest story with the university professor), that Reader works in the education system and now has to work closely together with Lewis for his mission44 project to reform the education system.

Thank you so much! I hope you will better soon!

𝑅𝑒𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐹𝓊𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! I finally moved into my new house but I’m still sick. I recently posted a Wattpad story that’s in the works(Account: hamilton-here) if you want to check it out. I hope you enjoy this request. Enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: You work in the education system and soon work with Lewis Hamilton on the Mission44 project. Feelings soon bloom between you two.

Warnings: slight slow-burn

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Room Where It Happens –

The familiar drone of the air conditioner in your tiny staff room was usually the loudest sound you heard all day, punctuated only by the distant echo of the school bell. Policy briefings, borough strategy sessions, education panels - they always started the same.

You’d be introduced, maybe even praised for your “invaluable frontline insights,” but within minutes the conversation would inevitably drift toward budgets, test scores, or some abstract bureaucratic concern far removed from the actual students you taught every day. You were used to being in rooms where people barely listened, where your voice was just another data point in a sea of well-meaning but ultimately hollow rhetoric.

So, when the Department for Education’s email landed in your inbox, proposing a “groundbreaking partnership with Mission 44,” you almost deleted it without a second thought. Another initiative. Another roundtable. Another well-intentioned man with a cause, usually accompanied by an entourage of handlers and a glossy brochure that promised the world and delivered very little. You’d learned to temper your expectations, to protect your heart from the inevitable disillusionment.

Except this time, the man was Lewis Hamilton.

A flicker of curiosity, quickly followed by a healthy dose of skepticism, made you open the email. The idea of Lewis Hamilton, a global icon, venturing into the labyrinthine world of education policy seemed almost fantastical. Still, you confirmed your attendance, half-expecting it to be a brief photo opportunity, a celebrity endorsement without substance.

The meeting was held in a modern glass conference room at the edge of Westminster, its sleek lines and panoramic views a stark contrast to the faded posters and chipped paint of your classroom. Your temporary badge, emblazoned with the Department for Education logo, had barely finished printing when someone, a harried young woman with a clipboard tucked under her arm, materialised beside you. Her voice was brisk, her eyes already scanning for her next task.

“They’re just about to start, you’re sitting beside Mr. Hamilton.”

You blinked. The words hung in the air, surreal and unexpected. “I’m sorry, beside?”

The woman didn’t pause, already gesturing down a wide, polished corridor. “He asked specifically for a frontline educator at the table. Said he didn’t want to do this without the people who actually know the system.” Her tone implied this was a perfectly normal, albeit slightly demanding, request from a VIP.

Your heart gave a sudden, heavy thud against your ribs. This wasn’t just a photo op. This was different. A nervous tremor ran through you as you followed her, the sound of your sensible shoes clicking on the marble floor suddenly amplified in the quiet grandeur of the building.

And then you stepped into the room.

There he was.

Dressed in tailored dark navy, a stark contrast to the casual tracksuits you’d seen him in on television. His braided hair was swept back from his face, revealing strong, thoughtful features. A small, elegant Mission 44 pin gleamed on his lapel. He was already seated at the head of a long, polished table, reviewing something on a tablet, his brow furrowed in concentration. But he looked up the moment you entered, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on you. His eyes steady, warm, intensely observant caught yours.

And suddenly, in that brief, impactful exchange, you saw something you hadn’t expected: not fame. Not ego. But intent. A profound, almost tangible purpose that seemed to emanate from him.

He stood as you approached, a natural, unhurried movement, extending a hand across the table. His grip was firm, reassuring.

“You must be the education lead from Brixton,” he said, his voice low and sincere, surprisingly devoid of any pretence. “I read about your inclusion pilot last year. It was brilliant, honestly.”

Your fingers closed around his, a little stunned. The scent of a subtle, expensive cologne reached you. “You read my report?” The words came out a little breathier than you intended.

A small, almost shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, softening the intensity in his eyes. “I asked for everything ahead of this meeting. Wanted to understand what’s already working.” He paused, his gaze unwavering. “You’re actually the reason I insisted on today’s agenda.”

Your throat tightened. The usual preamble, the polite but dismissive nods, the subtle hints that your input was appreciated but ultimately secondary none of it happened. You weren’t used to being heard before you even spoke.

The meeting unfolded around you with government advisors with their crisp presentations, youth ambassadors with their earnest testimonies, data analysts poring over spreadsheets. At first, you still harboured the suspicion that Lewis might be a symbolic figurehead, someone there to lend celebrity clout to an otherwise standard policy discussion.

But then he started asking questions. Real ones. Not the kind that were rhetorical or designed to showcase his own knowledge, but genuine inquiries born from a desire to understand. And he listened not just politely, waiting for his turn to speak, but deeply. You could see it in the slight tilt of his head, the way his eyes tracked the speaker, the subtle clench of his jaw.

When you spoke, your voice initially hesitant, about the disproportionately high exclusion rates for Black boys in Year 9, a statistic you knew intimately from your own school, you saw a profound shift in him. He looked furious. Not performative outrage, not the kind of fleeting anger politicians displayed for the cameras, but something deeply personal. Painful. Raw.

“I remember being pulled out of class for no reason,” he said at one point, his voice quieter, more reflective. “They said I was ‘disruptive.’ I was quiet. Just…different.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word, a vulnerability that cut through the sterile atmosphere of the conference room. It was a raw, unscripted moment, and you felt something fundamental shift in the room. The air itself seemed to settle, hushed and attentive.

No one interrupted after that. The advisors, typically quick to interject with their own data points, remained silent.

You weren’t sure when it happened, when your voice stopped shaking, when your carefully prepared notes stopped mattering, becoming mere prompts for a more authentic dialogue but at some point, you realised Lewis was turning to you after almost every question.

Not the Secretary of State, whose department was spearheading the initiative. Not the Director of Inclusion, who had years of experience in policy. You.

“Would that work in practice?”

“What have you seen in your classroom?”

“Do you think it’s enough?”

It was both terrifying and thrilling to be taken so seriously, to have your lived experience elevated to the same level as, or even above, abstract policy frameworks. You found yourself speaking with an unprecedented clarity and conviction, drawing on years of classroom moments, of conversations with students and parents, of small victories and heartbreaking setbacks. You weren't just being heard; you were being relied upon.

After two intense hours, the meeting adjourned. The room buzzed with renewed energy as people began filtering out, chatting in small clusters. Some seized the opportunity to snap selfies with Lewis, who graciously obliged, his smile unfading.

You gathered your papers, a familiar sense of detachment starting to settle over you. This was just another meeting, albeit an unusual one. You’d go home, decompress, file a debrief. This wasn’t personal. It was—

“Hey,” a voice murmured beside you, startling you from your thoughts. “Can I steal a few more minutes of your time?”

You turned to find Lewis standing close, closer than felt appropriate for a mere acquaintance, one hand casually tucked into his pocket, the other fiddling with the Mission 44 badge on his lapel. The lingering scent of his cologne was subtle, yet distinct.

“I’m working on something separate,” he said, his gaze direct and unwavering. “A school initiative we haven’t launched yet. Grassroots. I want someone with field experience to co-design it. Someone who actually knows what works on the ground, not just in theory.”

You stared at him, the implications of his words slowly sinking in. “You want me?”

He shrugged lightly, a gesture that belied the intensity behind his eyes. “You’re not afraid to say hard things. You cut through the noise. I need that. Mission 44 isn’t just a name or a branding exercise - I want it to actually work. And I can’t do that with PR people or those who are just going through the motions.”

A pause, heavy with unspoken weight. Then, his voice softer, almost reflective:

“I meant what I said earlier. You made me feel heard today. Truly heard. I haven’t had that in years.”

Your breath caught in your throat. It was a confession, an unexpected vulnerability that transcended the professional setting and touched something deeply personal.

“Okay,” you said, somehow keeping your voice steady despite the sudden surge of emotion. A profound sense of purpose, almost a solemn vow, settled over you. “Let’s design something that changes lives.”

He smiled and this time, it was a wide, genuine smile that reached all the way to his eyes, crinkling the corners. It was a smile of relief, of shared understanding, of genuine connection.

“I’ll have my team reach out,” he said, but then he hesitated, stepping a little closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But” he added, “I’d rather hear from you directly. If you’re okay with that.”

He handed you his phone, the screen already open to a new contact.

Your fingers brushed his as you typed your number in, a current passing between you both was subtle, barely perceptible, but undeniable. An electric hum that promised something more than just a professional collaboration.

And just like that, you were in.

Not just in the room. Not just another voice among many.

But in the heart of something real. Something profoundly impactful. Something that might just change everything.

The buzzing of your phone, two hours after stepping back into your quiet flat from the whirl of Westminster, was an unwelcome jolt. You were still in your work blazer, half a bowl of soggy cereal neglected on the coffee table, your mind replaying the day’s unexpected turn. Then you saw the name: Lewis Hamilton.

A single message: Hey. It’s Lewis. You were brilliant today. I meant what I said. Would you be free Friday to start mapping this out? Private planning session. No suits, no media. Just you and me and a whiteboard.

You read it twice, then a third time, the words blurring slightly as your hands began to tremble. This was happening. The casual tone, the directness, the invitation – it all felt surreal. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Friday, 3:04 p.m.

The Mission 44 workspace was a revelation. Forget the sterile corporate gleam you’d anticipated; this was a haven, a co-working sanctuary pulsating with quiet purpose. Exposed brick walls, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves brimming with educational research and policy papers, colourful beanbags scattered near chalkboards, and long, communal tables that invited collaboration. It was vibrant, lived-in, and entirely unexpected.

Lewis was already there, a striking figure in a fitted black t-shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms. A worn notebook lay open beside a tray laden with oat milk lattes and a crinkling bag of vegan biscuits. He looked up as you entered, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Figured you’d need caffeine,” he said, gesturing to the drinks. “Also, I didn’t want to look unprepared.”

You raised a brow, a genuine smile forming. “You’re Lewis Hamilton. You could show up with glitter and no notes and still run the room.”

He laughed then, a rich, warm sound that held a touch of surprise. “Yeah, but I don’t want to just show up. I want to build something. With you.”

That phrase again. “With you.” It resonated in your chest, a strange, hopeful flutter.

The first hour flowed effortlessly. You plunged into the core of your shared passion, talking through the raw edges of lived experiences, your pens scratching furiously across notebooks as you scribbled down ambitious goals: reduce exclusion rates, build robust in-school mentorship programs, challenge systemic bias head-on. It was heady and focused, the kind of deeply resonant conversation you’d yearned for, the kind only possible with someone who truly gave a damn.

But as the second hour began, the atmosphere subtly shifted. The energy remained, but it deepened, becoming more personal, more vulnerable.

“I used to think I was the problem,” Lewis said suddenly, his voice dropping to a quieter, more reflective tone. His fingers absently turned his pen, a small, unconscious gesture. “Back then. At school. I’d get pulled out of class, sent home early, talked down to and I thought, maybe I was the troublemaker. Maybe it was something inherently wrong with me.”

You looked up, surprised by the intensity of his gaze, how carefully he was watching you, as if gauging your reaction.

“I didn’t have anyone who looked like me in authority. No teachers that understood. No one who told me I was allowed to be brilliant. No one who told me my potential wasn’t limited by their expectations.” He paused, his eyes distant for a moment, lost in memory. “Until I found racing.”

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table, compelled by his candor. “That’s what we need to create,” you murmured, your voice low but firm. “A system that finds kids before they give up. Somewhere safe enough to truly see them, to nurture that brilliance, even if it looks different from what’s expected.”

He nodded slowly, a profound understanding passing between you. “Somewhere I would’ve felt like I belonged. Somewhere I wouldn’t have had to fight so hard just to be seen.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, a profound quietude that didn’t demand words. It was the kind of silence that held a deeper communication, a shared empathy that transcended spoken language.

You didn’t voice the ache in your throat, the fierce protectiveness that welled up as you imagined the little boy he used to be, yearning to reach back through time and tell him he was more than enough. Instead, you simply let the silence embrace that unspoken understanding for both of you.

By the third hour, the workspace had transformed into a dynamic hub of your collective thought. You’d pushed two tables together, the whiteboard was half-filled with intricate flowcharts and bold declarations, and your forgotten latte had been abandoned in favour of lukewarm water and pure, unadulterated adrenaline.

“That’s your third time referencing the 2022 SEND reforms,” Lewis observed, a grin spreading across his face. His eyes, bright with engagement, were fixed on you. “Are you always this passionate when you teach too?”

You mock-glared, a playful spark in your own eyes. “Only when I’m trying to stop vulnerable kids from getting permanently excluded because of bureaucratic red tape and systemic apathy.”

He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face, his gaze never leaving yours. “I like that you don’t sugar-coat it. It makes people listen.”

“I don’t always want them to listen,” you admitted, your voice dropping, a flicker of weariness touching your tone. “Sometimes I just want them to care.”

Lewis was quiet for a beat, his expression softening. Then, simply: “I care.”

You didn’t mean to, but your gaze involuntarily dropped to his hands. Strong, steady hands, capable of incredible precision and power, now fidgeting subtly with the corner of his notebook.

He’d taken off a distinctive bracelet, and it lay on the table beside your own pen, your belongings blending together as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

When you looked back up, you found him still watching you. There was something there, unspoken, unacted upon, but undeniably there. A quiet recognition, a mutual awareness that hummed beneath the surface of your professional collaboration.

7:16 p.m.

You had completely lost track of time. The world outside the Mission 44 workspace had ceased to exist. Lewis only noticed the late hour when his phone vibrated – a dinner reminder, likely something formal and forgettable in his demanding schedule. He glanced at the screen, then deliberately ignored it, setting the phone face down.

“You hungry?” he asked, looking at you.

You blinked, emerging from the deep focus of your discussion. “For food?”

His lips twitched, a hint of amusement. “Unless you eat whiteboard markers when you’re low on blood sugar.”

You laughed, a genuine, uninhibited sound, shaking your head. “Yeah. I could eat.”

He stood, stretching slowly, his movements fluid and powerful. And God, his back flexed under the fitted black t-shirt, the graceful curve of his spine a testament to years of athletic discipline. You snapped your eyes away, hoping he hadn’t caught your inadvertent stare.

“There’s a Thai place two blocks down,” he said, his voice casual as he tossed you a dark hoodie. “Bring this. It’s freezing out there.”

You hesitated, the soft fabric warm in your hands. “I’m not cold.”

“I know,” he said, his eyes holding yours. “But I want you to wear it anyway.”

Something in his tone, a quiet insistence, made you comply. You slipped it on. It was soft, worn, and smelled faintly of eucalyptus, ink, and something warm and uniquely him that you couldn’t quite name.

The walk to the restaurant was quiet, but it wasn't awkward. It was a comfortable silence, filled with the lingering energy of your intense planning session. At one point, your hands brushed, and neither of you pulled away. It was a fleeting, almost imperceptible contact, yet it sent a subtle current through you.

You told yourself it was the adrenaline, the lingering high of the project’s boundless potential. You told yourself it was nothing.

But then, as you sat across from him over shared bowls of fragrant curry, Lewis leaned in, his voice quiet, almost a whisper, as if the answer truly mattered more than anything else in the world: “Why did you say yes?”

You tilted your head, genuinely surprised by the question. “To the project?”

He nodded, his eyes searching yours, deep and steady. “To me.”

The air shifted, becoming thick with unspoken meaning. You swallowed, the weight of his gaze almost palpable.

“Because for the first time,” you said, your voice steady despite the tremor in your chest, “someone with power asked not for my opinion, but for my partnership. And because I believe in this.” You paused, gathering your thoughts, and then, the words slipped out, raw and honest: “In you.”

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable, as if you were something he hadn’t expected to find, a surprising, beautiful discovery. And maybe, in some profound way, you were.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The first time Lewis invites you to his flat, it's entirely innocent. Or at least, that's the narrative you meticulously construct for yourself. "It's just quieter there," he says, his voice a low murmur, as you both step out of another Mission 44 session – this one a vibrant but exhausting dialogue with passionate youth workers from Leeds and Manchester. "We'll get more done without people buzzing in and out."

You nod, perhaps a little too readily. "Yeah. Sure. Just work." But every fibre of your being is hyper-aware of the subtle ways he moves around you: the fractional pause as his hand hovers near your lower back when he opens the car door; the quiet intensity of his glances while you speak, as if the very cadence of your words holds as much significance as their meaning.

The flat is in Notting Hill, a hushed corner of London. It's tasteful, understated, bathed in the soft glow of natural light. This isn't the kind of place that screams celebrity; rather, it whispers sanctuary. It feels like a carefully curated retreat from the relentless gaze of the world.

"This place is beautiful," you murmur, stepping into a living room imbued with warm wood tones and eclectic framed prints. Your eyes drift to the bookshelf, a treasure trove of unexpected titles: sociology, philosophy, and poetry. You spot a few authors you adore some you've only ever discussed in hushed academic tones with fellow educators.

Lewis watches you quietly, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "I don't show many people this side of my life," he says, his voice softer than you've ever heard it.

You glance at him, a question forming on your lips. "Why me?"

He hesitates, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, but it's only for a moment. "Because I trust you." The words hang in the air, weighted with sincerity. It’s not just a statement; it’s an offering, a small, precious piece of himself, just real enough to mean everything.

You work. You actually work. The first hour is a whirlwind of focused energy: outlining a rough framework for the pilot programs, debating granular strategy points, meticulously identifying underserved boroughs to prioritise for intervention. The air is thick with ideas, shared ambition, and the satisfying scratch of pens on paper.

But somewhere between the fourth page of meticulously planning notes and the second round of steaming Earl Grey tea, the rigid professional facade begins to soften.

He's sitting opposite you on the floor, legs stretched out comfortably under the large coffee table, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

You’re cross-legged, a sprawl of papers surrounding you, notes scribbled in two distinct handwritings across a shared pad. The quiet that settles between you is comfortable, companionable. And maybe…close.

You find yourself explaining some esoteric point about community resilience models something technical, theoretical, pulled straight from a university lecture. He laughs, a sudden, delighted sound that ripples through the calm. It’s not mocking; it’s pure, unadulterated amusement.

“You sound like a research paper,” he says through a wide grin.

You blink, genuinely surprised by his reaction, then burst out laughing too, the sound echoing lightly in the room. “That’s because I am a research paper half the time.”

His laughter deepens, a rich, warm rumble, and for a precious moment, the intricate layers of work and ambition fall away. All that remains is the simple warmth of shared air, a profound mutual understanding, and a tantalising flicker of something neither of you dares to name.

When the laughter fades, the quiet that descends isn’t awkward. It's charged. You look up, and he’s already looking at you, his gaze steady, perceptive.

“Can I tell you something?” His voice is soft, almost reverent, as if he’s about to share a secret.

You nod, your breath catching in your throat, a sudden anticipation tightening your chest.

“I’ve never felt more seen than I do when I’m around you.”

You don't speak right away. The words land with too much weight, too much raw sincerity. He’s not flirting; he’s confessing. This is something deeper, more fundamental.

“I’m always…on,” he continues, his fingers absently tracing a soft crease in the page between you. “Every room I enter. Every lens pointed at me. Even when I’m fighting for change, there’s a performance in it. A pressure to be infallible, to have all the answers. But you… You don’t expect that from me. You expect truth. Just truth.”

You swallow, the honesty of his words resonating deeply within you. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted from people too.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, perhaps something even more profound, but instead, he simply nods, a silent acknowledgment passing between you.

The moment stretches, suspended in the soft afternoon light. You don’t reach across the space between you, though a powerful pull draws you. Neither does he. But something has irrevocably shifted. A deeper understanding has settled between you, a quiet tether that is no longer invisible, no longer merely implied.

You don’t stay too late. You finish your tea, the lukewarm liquid a grounding presence. You review the pilot proposal one last time, making a few final, crucial notes. And when you finally stand to leave, Lewis walks you to the door without a word, the shared silence comfortable, profound.

The city outside is hushed, a typical London night that hums with its own quiet breath, the streetlights casting long, soft shadows.

You turn, offering him a small, genuine smile. “Thanks for letting me see this side of things.”

He nods, his gaze unwavering. "It means more than I can say."

And just as your hand reaches for the doorknob, he says your name, a quiet utterance that halts your movement.

You pause, your heart giving a small lurch. When you look back, his gaze is steady, earnest, filled with an intensity that mirrors your own burgeoning feelings.

“I know it’s still early,” he says, his voice low, “But I meant it. Working with you it’s different. You get it. And that means everything.”

You nod once, a silent affirmation that carries a multitude of unsaid emotions. “It means everything to me too.”

The next few weeks blur into a relentless but exhilarating rhythm. You’re now co-leading the grassroots pilot, and the workload has tripled, but so, too, has the palpable sense of impact.

Your days are a whirlwind of meetings with government liaisons, policy teams, and school leaders. You speak on panels, articulate the project’s vision, and witness firsthand the ripples of change your work is creating. Lewis, true to his word, insists on being at every single one.

You find him in the crowd every time – arms crossed, a picture of focused concentration, his eyes fixed entirely on you, radiating a quiet pride.

Still, what happens off-stage, in the liminal spaces between official engagements, lingers more vividly than any public appearance. The long, reflective walks along the Thames after intense meetings, the city lights shimmering on the dark water.

The shared coffees on park benches, scribbling notes on napkins as you brainstorm solutions to unforeseen challenges. His voice on the phone at 1 a.m., calm and reassuring, after you’ve just finished reading a particularly devastating report on exclusion rates.

The way he listens – really listens – when you talk about your past, your deep-seated frustrations with systemic inequities, your quiet, fervent hope that this project will become something more than just politics, more than just another initiative. He listens with an intensity that makes you feel heard, understood, and valued in a way you hadn't realized you craved.

You never touch, not intimately. Not yet. But there are moments. Charged, lingering moments that hum with unspoken potential.

Like the time your fingers brush as you pass him a critical note during a high-stakes meeting, and neither of you moves for a beat too long, the soft contact sending a jolt through you both. Or the night you leave a formal dinner, and he opens your car door with one hand, the other grazing your lower back, just briefly, lightly, as if he couldn’t help the unconscious gesture, a silent apology for withdrawing it so quickly.

But it’s never rushed. Never spoken aloud. Not yet. The tension, the anticipation, builds slowly, exquisitely.

Then comes the day of the press conference. The culmination of months of relentless groundwork. The partnership with the Department for Education is official. Six cities. A full rollout. A national pilot for equity and inclusion in schools – backed by the immense power of Mission 44 and fuelled by your shared vision.

Lewis insists you sit beside him at the table, front and centre. “No one else but you,” he says quietly, his voice firm, just before the cameras flash and the microphones are thrust forward.

You squeeze his hand once under the table. Just a squeeze. And just for courage, a silent acknowledgment of the monumental moment you are about to step into together.

The press barrage you both with questions about the project, its anticipated impact, the personal cost of such ambitious work. Then, a reporter asks him why this initiative, above all others, mattered most to him. Why now.

He pauses, the silence in the room suddenly amplified. His gaze finds yours, a flicker of something profound passing between you. Then he looks out at the assembled room, his expression thoughtful, sincere.

“I met someone who reminded me what it felt like to be heard for the first time.”

He doesn’t name you. He doesn’t have to. You feel it anyway – the sudden burn under your skin, the way your chest tightens as if trying to contain something vast and uncontainable. You don’t say a word. You don't need to.

But when it’s all over, when the cameras are down and the lights dim, he turns to you, his hand gently touching your arm. You meet his eyes, and there’s still no kiss. Still no explicit confession.

But it’s in the shared exhale, the quiet understanding that passes between you – like the space between you is safe now. And like whatever this is…it’s only just beginning.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Current time is Monday, June 9, 2025 at 2:03:36 PM AEST.

The article drops three days after the triumphant press conference. You’re halfway through a critical meeting with two sharp, passionate East London youth leaders, dissecting community engagement strategies, when your phone begins its insistent chorus – once, twice, then a rapid succession of buzzes until even Lewis, usually impervious to such digital interruptions, glances over. He raises an eyebrow, a silent question in his eyes, as you flip the screen face down, determinedly ignoring the persistent summons.

After the meeting, as you both walk towards the internal cafe, Lewis catches your wrist gently, his touch light but firm. "You okay?" he asks, his voice low with concern.

You sigh, a weary exhalation. “I think… someone wrote something.”

He frowns, pulling out his own phone, his fingers flying across the screen with practiced speed. A moment later, he exhales hard through his nose, a sound of exasperation.

He turns the screen to you, displaying the headline: Hamilton’s Hidden Partner: The Educator Beside the Mission.

Below it, a grainy, slightly blurred photo, undeniably you and him, captured outside the conference venue. You’re both laughing, genuine and unposed, his hand resting casually on your arm, your eyes on his.

You don’t speak, the image a stark, public mirror of the private world you've been building.

“They’re speculating,” he says carefully, his voice a balm against the sudden intrusion. “About us.” The word "us" shouldn't mean anything in a professional context, but your heart gives an involuntary skip anyway.

You take his phone, your fingers brushing his. You skim the article, your eyes darting over the familiar tabloid sensationalism. Phrases leap out at you like venomous insects: Unusually close working relationship. A source claims the two have been spending late nights together. Whispers of something more than collaboration…

You hand the phone back, a soft, humourless laugh bubbling up. “All it takes is a look, huh?” The irony is bitter. For weeks, you’ve been navigating a delicate dance of unspoken feelings, and the press has, with one snapshot, laid it bare.

His jaw tightens, a visible clench of frustration. “This wasn’t supposed to be about us.”

“It still isn’t,” you say quickly, fiercely. “This is about the work. The kids. The system. This is about Mission 44.”

He studies you, his gaze piercing. “But it changes things, doesn’t it?”

You don’t answer. Because the truth is – it does. You’ve spent weeks, months even, meticulously constructing something quietly sacred between you: trust forged in shared purpose, a vision that bound you together, and an undeniable, unspoken connection that thrived in the shadows of collaboration. But now, with one cynical article, the world has tilted it into a spectacle, cheapening something profound. The cafe suddenly feels too loud, too bright, the fluorescent lights harsh, and the edges of your skin feel terrifyingly exposed.

That night, alone in your flat, your phone vibrates with his text:

You okay?

You stare at it, the simple words holding so much weight. Then, your fingers hover, reluctant, before typing:

Not really. I feel like someone just turned a light on in a room I didn’t want anyone to see.

You don’t expect a reply, preparing yourself for the privacy that usually defines his guarded life. But it comes a moment later, almost instantly:

Same. Can I come over? Just to talk.

Your fingers hover again, a dizzying mix of apprehension and yearning swirling within you. Then, a decisive tap:

Yeah. Just talk.

He arrives with tea, the same soothing chamomile blend from his flat, a quiet comfort in the unsettling evening. You sit side by side on your sofa – not touching, not looking directly at each other – but somehow, the air between you hums with an almost tangible energy, a silent recognition of the bond that has been publicly laid bare.

“They’ll do it again,” you say finally, breaking the comfortable quiet, your voice tight. “Twist things. Fabricate narratives.”

He nods; his gaze fixed on some unseen point across the room. “I know.”

“And if this…if whatever this is between us complicates the work—”

He cuts in gently, his voice firm, unwavering. “It doesn’t. You are the work. Everything we’ve done together – that’s what matters. That’s what they can’t take away.”

You turn your head to look at him, seeking reassurance. “But you’re Lewis Hamilton. If people think you’re distracted by personal matters, they won’t listen. They’ll dismiss the message, the impact.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back into the cushions, eyes on the ceiling, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “I’ve been told I’m ‘Distracted’ my whole life. That I need to pick between passion and purpose. Between my art and my activism. But what if they’re the same thing? What if the very things that fuel your passion are your purpose?”

You sit with that for a moment, the profound truth of his words sinking in. Then, the question you’ve been afraid to ask, slips out: “Is that what this is for you? A distraction?”

He turns toward you slowly, his gaze locking with yours, intense and utterly sincere. “No. This - ” His voice drops, raw with emotion. “You - are the thing that’s been keeping me grounded through all of it. The constant, the real.”

Your throat tightens, a powerful ache blossoming in your chest. But you nod, a quiet acknowledgment. Because you understand. You feel it too, the sense of being anchored, of finding a profound clarity in his presence.

Still, you both know this path is delicate. You’re not ready to fall into something undefined, not while so much is at stake. Not yet. So, you say, your voice soft but resolute: “Then let’s be careful.”

His eyes search yours, a flash of something unreadable passing through them. “You mean… don’t rush?”

“Yeah,” you affirm, a small, knowing smile touching your lips.

He exhales, a quiet sound that could be relief, or perhaps, immense restraint.

You smile back, just barely. “Besides what we’re building, Mission 44, the pilot programs, or the outreach - it deserves our full hearts. No distractions. No complications.”

His gaze lingers on you, a deep, silent understanding passing between you. Then he nods, a decisive gesture. “No distractions.”

But as you walk him to the door and your fingers brush again just briefly it feels less like restraint and more like a promise. A promise to protect what is growing, to allow it to bloom in its own time, shielded from the harsh glare of public scrutiny.

The next few weeks are relentless. The government signs off on the second phase of the pilot, a monumental achievement that sends a ripple of excitement through your small, dedicated team. You’re flown to Birmingham for a school site visit, the energy in the classrooms palpable.

A regional headteacher asks you for your thoughts on restorative justice practices, and Lewis, who is usually the centre of attention, turns to listen to you, his entire focus shifted, before you even speak. It’s a small detail, but it speaks volumes.

At one point during a school Q&A session, a bold teenager, brimming with youthful curiosity, asks, “Are you two dating?” The entire classroom erupts in embarrassed laughter, and you nearly choke on your water, your cheeks flushing a furious red.

Lewis, however, just smiles, his composure unruffled, and says, with a charming twinkle in his eye, “Only dating ideas. And there are a lot of them.” The answer is clever, deflecting, and yet, somehow, it feels like a subtle nod to the truth.

Later that day, you find a small, folded note on your desk – written in his sharp, slanted handwriting: That kid had guts. Reminded me of you. You fold it carefully and tuck it into your notebook, a private treasure.

The tension doesn’t fade. But it shifts. From overwhelming to familiar. From a burdensome weight to a comforting tether. You’re in this together now, not just Mission 44 but the strange, quiet knowledge of something profound growing between you both.

You start staying late again, the boundary between work and something else, becoming increasingly porous. Brainstorming by lamplight, the city quiet outside. Sharing moments between work that feel less like strategy and more like connection.

Like the night he walks you to your car and doesn’t let go of your hand right away, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, a silent assurance. Or when he sees you overwhelmed, perhaps close to tears from the sheer weight of responsibility, and says softly, “Take a breath. I’m right here.”

He always is.

The tension doesn’t fade. But it shifts. From overwhelming to familiar. From weight to tether. You’re in this together now not just Mission 44, but the strange, quiet knowledge of something growing between you both.

And when the speculation resurfaces louder this time, fuelled by blurry paparazzi photos and increasingly bold, speculative headlines you respond not with a defensive statement, but with a unified, strategic front.

Three carefully curated Instagram posts go live within minutes of each other, a coordinated digital strike.

On your page: A powerful still from the National Youth Equity Conference – you, Lewis, the Prime Minister, and three bright-eyed young leaders, their faces alight with hope. Your caption reads: Change doesn’t happen in silence. Proud to stand beside students, leaders, and partners reshaping the future. #Mission44 #PolicyInAction

On Lewis’s page: A candid shot from backstage of the two of you, heads bent together, reviewing speaking notes, his hand mid-gesture, your brow furrowed in concentration. The caption: Not rumours. Reality. This is what collaboration looks like for purpose, not performance. #Mission44

On Mission 44’s official page: A high angle shot of the entire stage, the full team and students seated in discussion, the Prime Minister at the centre, a symbol of the institutional backing you’ve secured.

The caption: We’re not here for tabloid stories. We’re here to amplify youth voices and build policy change with the people who live it. Our team stands united. #YoungVoicesMatter #Mission44

It works enough to steady the turbulent waters. Enough to remind the world that this isn’t a distraction. It’s a movement. A movement too important to be overshadowed by cheap gossip.

And the movement is still growing, stronger and more resilient with every challenge it faces, just like the quiet, powerful connection between you and Lewis.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Pilot Launch Day: South London

The air outside the school is thick with tension not anxiety, not fear but the weight of something earned.

It’s the first official day of the Mission 44 Education Reform Pilot.

Six cities. Dozens of schools. Hundreds of educators trained in trauma-informed practice, equity frameworks, and community-based learning. A year of drafting, rewriting, coalition building, sleepless nights, early flights and now it’s here.

And this school a quiet brick building tucked between tower blocks in South London is where it starts.

A student greets you at the door, hand outstretched. “Miss, you remember me?”

You pause. And then you do.

Devon. From one of the early youth roundtables. The one who sat with his arms crossed and said the system was “bullshit” and that no one ever listened.

Now he’s in a school uniform that fits properly. His lanyard says Student Council Lead.

Your throat tightens. “You clean up well.”

He laughs. “They made me tuck my shirt in for this, innit. But I’m still saying the same things.”

Lewis joins you a beat later, nodding at Devon. “Glad to see you again.”

Devon grins. “Sir, I’m watching you now, you know. Not just for the cars. For this.”

Lewis chuckles. “That’s the idea.”

The student leads you both inside. The halls have been repainted. The posters lining the walls aren’t generic slogans they’re student-created: “Learning should feel like power.” “Justice belongs in classrooms.”

Inside the main assembly hall, press line the back wall, but they’re quiet. The energy is too respectful, too reverent, to break with shouts or flashbulbs.

You sit side-by-side on stage. Lewis’s knee just barely brushing yours.

The headteacher speaks first. Then a student. Then a youth worker.

When it’s your turn, you stand behind the mic and pause because it hits you.

This moment. This reality.

What began as scribbles and what-ifs is now a breathing, living thing.

“I remember the first time I was told I didn’t belong,” you say. “It was Year 10. A teacher looked at me and said, Some people just aren’t cut out for this system. But no one ever stopped to ask if the system was cut out for us.”

You glance down. Lewis is watching you. Not like a colleague. Not like a co-founder.

Like something else.

You go on. “Today, we’re not just launching a pilot. We’re launching a truth: that young people especially those failed by traditional structures, deserve education that meets them where they are, and lifts them higher.”

The applause is soft at first, then spreads like a wave.

When the speeches end, the cameras roll. You and Lewis take a brief walk through the school classrooms in session, teachers with new materials, students who’ve never been asked for input now shaping their own curriculum.

In one room, a girl raises her hand and says, “Sir, is it true you two designed this together?”

Lewis looks at you. “We did.”

The girl squints. “So…are you like, best friends or something?”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Something like that.”

Later, once the press clears and the staff breathe again, you slip out to the empty courtyard.

It’s quiet. Cold, but clear.

Lewis finds you there.

“Didn’t know you’d vanished,” he says gently, holding out your coat.

You take it, tug it on. “Needed a second. It’s a lot.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

There’s a long pause. Not uncomfortable. Just…weighty.

Then he says, “I watched you speak today. And I kept thinking if I’d had someone like you in my corner when I was younger, I would’ve believed in change a lot sooner.”

You swallow. “I think the same. About you.”

He looks at you and it’s not a glance this time. It’s a full-on search. Like he’s trying to find the version of you that’s been hiding behind purpose and late nights and policy drafts.

Like he’s found her.

You don’t say anything more. Neither does he.

But when he reaches out just lightly and touches your wrist, you don’t pull away.

And when your fingers stay there, almost laced but not quite, for the rest of the evening… it feels like more than enough.

He doesn’t tell you where you’re going only says, “Dress nice. No blazers. You’ve earned at least one night off.”

So, you do.

You trade your workwear for a soft, fitted dress. Something simple. Comfortable. Something that still makes you feel like yourself but seen.

He picks you up himself, no driver. His car smells like cinnamon and clean leather. He doesn’t say much, but the glance he gives you when you slide into the passenger seat lingers.

“Okay,” he says. “You really didn’t have to go this hard.”

You smirk. “You said ‘dress nice.’ I follow instructions.”

He laughs, and it’s the first time all day he sounds like he’s not carrying the weight of ten thousand expectations.

The restaurant he’s chosen is tucked away no paparazzi, no fuss. A low-lit place with floor-to-ceiling windows, jazz humming from a speaker near the bar. There are no white tablecloths. Just dark wood, gold cutlery, and the kind of hush that invites conversation.

You order drinks ginger mocktails for both of you and share plates between you.

And for the first time in weeks, it’s not about strategy.

It’s about you.

“What was the moment it all clicked for you?” he asks, leaning forward. “The one that made you say, ‘Alright. I’m gonna change the whole damn system.’”

You grin. “Year 11. My best friend got suspended for something she didn’t even do. They didn’t even ask her side. Just a phone call home and an assumption.”

He watches you closely.

“I remember thinking, if the system doesn’t care about truth, what is it doing? And then later, when I started learning about law and policy, I realised maybe I could do something from the inside.”

He nods. “You’ve done more than ‘something.’ You made this real.”

You shrug, looking down at your drink. “We did it together.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “You know, I’ve worked with a lot of people. Been in boardrooms with some of the most powerful folks in the world. But I’ve never felt this kind of clarity before.”

You glance up.

He continues, slower now. “You’ve made me braver. Sharper. More focused. Like I’m not just fighting for something anymore - I’m building it.”

Your heart is a live-wire.

You sit in it. Let it stretch between you.

The check comes. He pays — quickly, before you even reach for your purse.

You leave the restaurant with a lightness in your chest and a warmth in your cheeks.

Outside, the air was crisp but not cold, carrying the faint, sweet scent of damp earth and distant city life. The London streets shimmered under lamplight, still a little wet from earlier rain, each glint a secret shared with the night. You walked quietly, side by side, your shoulders brushing now and then, a soft friction that sent a quiet warmth through you. Your breath, a delicate mist in the low light, mingled with his.

“Walk for a bit?” he asked, his voice a low thrum against the city's quiet hum.

You nodded, a single, soft brush of your chin against your chest. “Yeah.”

So you did. Slowly, unhurried, as if the ground beneath you held no urgency. The city hummed around you but didn’t intrude like it was giving you this moment, a hushed, private space in its vastness.

“I thought about you that night,” he said suddenly, his voice even lower now, as if afraid to break the delicate stillness between you. “After the article came out. I kept wondering if I’d messed it up. Put a spotlight on something that should’ve been private.”

You slowed your steps, your heart giving a quiet, responsive beat. “I thought about you, too. But not like that.”

He stopped walking, and so did you, the sudden absence of motion emphasising the charged air.

You turned to face him beneath the amber glow of a streetlamp, the rain-slick pavement catching pieces of light like scattered glass. The light softened the edges of his face, drawing your gaze to the gentle curve of his lips, the intensity in his eyes.

“I thought about how I’ve never met anyone who made purpose feel this possible,” you whispered, your voice a little shaky with the admission. “Like it’s not just an idea. It’s a life.”

He was looking at you the way he did during your speech earlier like he was seeing every version of you at once, pulling them into a single, cohesive truth. The fighter, the strategist, the girl who once wanted to be invisible, and the woman now standing at the centre of something seismic, vulnerable and powerful all at once.

His eyes, dark pools in the lamplight, flickered to your mouth. Then back up. Then down again, a silent, electric tracing.

He took a step closer, then another, his presence enveloping you, blurring the edges of the world.

Your breath hitched, a soft intake of air that felt impossibly loud in the quiet. You didn’t move.

You knew before it happened before his hand grazed your jaw, a feather-light touch that sent shivers through your skin. Before his fingers slid gently behind your ear, finding the sensitive hollow there, the pad of his thumb resting just under your cheekbone, a warm anchor.

Before the soft, ragged inhale he took as his forehead leaned in, touching yours, the slight rasp of his skin against yours.

Everything narrowed, sharpened. The cool, crisp press of the night air against your skin, the radiating warmth from him, a protective aura. The distinct scent of cinnamon and something deeper, richer - something undeniably his, a scent that resonated deep within you.

You didn’t close your eyes yet. You just looked at him, memorising the landscape of his face, the intensity in his gaze, the question in his eyes.

And then he whispered, his voice a raw murmur against your lips, “I’m going to kiss you now, unless you don’t want me to.”

Your reply was breathless, barely there, a sigh of surrender and longing: “I do.”

He didn’t rush it. This was not a moment to be hurried.

His lips brushed against yours like a question the softest ask, a hesitant exploration. And when you answered by pressing closer, your hand sliding up, fingers instinctively curling into the soft fabric of his coat over his chest, he deepened it. Still slow. Still careful. But with a quiet intensity that made your whole-body ache with a sweet, profound longing.

It wasn’t the kiss of impulse.

It was the kiss of weeks of near misses, of accidental touches that lingered too long. Of shoulders touching in crowded rooms, sending sparks beneath your skin. Of late nights with mugs too warm to hold, sharing secrets in hushed tones. Of glances exchanged across tables that said not yet, not here, but soon.

It was the kiss of trust earned through quiet battles, of tension survived, of recognising a kindred spirit.

You tilted your head, allowing deeper access, and his other hand found your waist, firm but reverent, grounding you as if you were something precious, something sacred.

Your fingers curled further into the fabric of his coat, gripping him gently as the kiss lingered, built, softened, deepened a symphony of sensation, a silent conversation of souls. And when it finally broke, it was with a pause that felt like a breath held between heartbeats, a suspended moment before the world rushed back in.

He stayed close.

His forehead remained against yours, his hand still cradling your jaw, his other firm at your waist. In the quiet that followed, all you heard was the distant, soothing hum of traffic and the incredible, effortless way your breaths synced without trying.

Then he murmured, his voice husky, “I’ve wanted to do that since the first night you challenged me in that strategy meeting.”

You laughed, a soft, breathless sound that vibrated between you. “And I’ve wanted to do it since you brought me that terrible chamomile tea the first time I stayed late.”

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling against your forehead as he brushed his nose against yours, a tender, playful gesture. “I knew it was bad. I just needed a reason to walk over.”

You smiled, warm and real, and it bloomed in your chest like something unstoppable, something radiant.

You stayed like that a little longer no expectations, no deadlines, no next steps. Just two people in the middle of a London street, caught in the tender glow of a streetlamp, in the middle of something profound and new.

Something built not from rush or fleeting desire alone, but from shared purpose, deep respect, and a thousand quiet moments that had led, inevitably, exquisitely, to this one.

And when he finally walked you back to the car and opened the door for you, his hand brushed yours again.

This time, neither of you let go for a long while. The connection, now undeniable, hummed between your joined hands, a silent promise in the quiet night.

The kiss didn’t change everything overnight. It didn’t unravel months of carefully constructed caution or send you spiralling into something too big, too fast. If anything, it settled something between you turned tension into a gentle tether, potential into a quiet, comforting presence.

The next morning, there were no grand declarations, no sudden shifts in title or pace. But when you walked into the meeting room and saw Lewis already there, flipping through the week’s schedule, he looked up like he always did with that quiet flicker of something just for you, a warmth in his eyes that had always been present but now felt undeniably acknowledged. And this time, you let yourself return it fully, a soft, open acceptance in your gaze.

You still immersed yourselves in the work, still spent hours in schools, in hushed rooms with policy advisors, with students who carried more weight than any young shoulders should. But now, a new softness was woven into it all. A quiet knowing that hummed beneath the surface.

A foundation that felt just as much about mutual care as it did about systemic change. This deepening connection didn't distract; it enriched, grounding you both as you navigated the demanding landscape of their shared mission.

When the first round of national expansion was confirmed after months of rigorous trial programs, relentless lobbying, and delicate negotiations you were called into a press conference. You sat beside Lewis, the education secretary, and a panel of remarkable young people who had helped shape the pilot. The air thrummed with anticipation.

The announcement came: Mission 44’s groundbreaking school reform initiative would be rolled out to thirty more institutions across the UK. A model rooted in dignity, access, and profoundly, powerfully, youth-led solutions.

The applause rang out, a wave of sound that seemed to lift the very ceiling. You glanced at him, a natural, almost magnetic pull, and found he was already looking at you. And in that look a small, private smile exchanged amidst the joyous chaos, a silent acknowledgment shared in the middle of something massive - you felt it:

You made it.

Not just the program. Not just the policy.

But this. The thing between you. Built slowly, deliberately, like a strong, resilient current. Without ever needing to rush, or to name it before it was truly, unequivocally ready. It was a growth, a blossoming, unfolding at its own organic pace.

Later that night, when it was all over and your shoes were off and the city had gone quiet again, he walked into your living room with a mug in each hand.

Chamomile, of course. It was still terrible. You still drank it, a small, shared ritual.

He sank into the couch beside you, a little closer than strictly necessary. Your legs brushed, a warm, reassuring contact. Neither of you moved away.

You didn’t talk about work. You didn't need to. That day's triumph had already been shared in a look, a touch. Instead, you talked about music. Family. The versions of yourselves that existed before all this began, before the mission, before each other.

And somewhere between laughing about your mutual fear of karaoke and teasing him about his endless collection of knit beanies, you rested your head on his shoulder.

He kissed the top of it - absent, affectionate, a comfortable gesture that felt as natural as breathing.

And it was then you realised:

This wasn’t a beginning.

Not really.

This was continuing.

You were still doing the work, the urgent, vital work of building a better system. Still learning how to love each other with care, with patience, with clarity, allowing your connection to deepen as naturally as the shifting seasons.

And for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel heavy with expectation or burden.

It just felt open. Filled with possibility, both for the world you were shaping and the quiet, profound love blooming within it.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

One Year Later:

You don't even notice the camera flash at first. You're too utterly absorbed in the vibrant energy of the students before you - their eyes bright, their questions bubbling over, a perfect mix of cool indifference and starry-eyed awe at being in the same room as him.

Lewis is to your right, leaning in, his brow furrowed in that familiar, endearing way he gets when he's truly locked into a conversation. A bright girl with box braids is passionately explaining her school’s new peer mentorship program, and when she finishes, he grins, a flash of pure warmth that reaches his eyes, and nudges you lightly with his elbow.

"She just described half the model you spent six months drafting," he murmurs, his voice a low, playful rumble meant just for you. "You've infected the youth."

You bump your elbow back against his, a comfortable, well-worn rhythm that’s become second nature. "Mission accomplished."

The students, sharp as ever, don't miss it, of course the shared look, the quiet, effortless sync between you two that speaks volumes without a single word. One of the boys raises an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his eye, and mutters something under his breath to his friend, a soft giggle escaping. Later, you'll scroll past a TikTok with a blurry, slightly shaky zoom-in of that exact moment, captioned:

THEM??? #powercouple #educatorera #mission44royalty

It has half a million likes by dinner, but you just scroll past it with a soft smile, a warmth spreading through your chest. You don't care anymore. Because somewhere along the way, the whispers stopped mattering. The mission got louder than the noise, a roaring testament to change that echoed far beyond any gossip.

And people, finally, truly saw it for what it was: two people not just working side by side, but loving without spectacle, building something substantial and enduring that would outlast any fleeting headline. Their relationship, once a quiet, private bloom, had simply become another natural, undeniable part of their public story.

You move in together in March. Not with an announcement splashed across news sites or a formal press release the world already knew, or at least suspected, from the easy way you interacted in public, the lingering touches, the undeniable glow that seemed to follow you both.

It was just boxes filled with shared memories, a collection of beloved mugs, and a shared playlist that became the soft, melodic backdrop as you gently, beautifully, folded your separate lives into the same sun-drenched space. Your worn sneakers found their place next to his polished shoes by the door, a small, perfect tableau of domesticity. His well-loved paperbacks were shelved next to your dog-eared academic texts, a silent blending of worlds, each page whispering tales of your individual journeys now intertwined.

A calendar on the fridge, covered in outreach trips and campaign dates, now sported a little heart drawn in your handwriting next to "Cambridge student conference," a sweet, thoughtful idea that was entirely his, marking a shared commitment that extended beyond the professional.

You fall asleep most nights with your head nestled against his chest, the steady beat of his heart a lullaby. His hand is always curled around yours, a soft, protective weight, a quiet promise in the dark.

You still talk about work, about the intricate dance of policy and people, about the breakthroughs and the challenges, still dreaming bigger, together, his presence making every aspiration feel more attainable.

One quiet night in June, after a long, fulfilling day of school visits in bustling Manchester, you're brushing your teeth, the low hum of the electric brush a familiar sound, when you hear him call your name from the living room. It’s a soft call, but laced with a certain tenderness that makes you pause, a tremor of anticipation running through you.

You walk out to find him standing by the window, the soft glow of the city lights painting gentle shadows on his skin. He's in nothing but comfortable joggers and a soft white tee, looking utterly at peace, yet somehow more profoundly present than ever, bathed in the quiet glow of the city.

"I keep thinking," he says, his eyes finding yours across the room, full of a quiet wonder, "about how none of this would've happened without you."

You arch a brow playfully, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "The work?"

He shakes his head slowly, a faint, contented smile playing on his lips, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. "The work. The change. Me."

He crosses the room, his steps unhurried, as if savouring every inch of the distance between you. He reaches you, and his hands cup your face, so gentle, so utterly natural, as if they were always meant to fit there, anchoring you with a profound, quiet strength.

"I didn't know I could do this," he murmurs, his thumbs stroking softly along your cheekbones, a tender caress, "and feel whole. Until you."

Your throat tightens, a sweet ache blooming in your chest. Not because you didn't know but because you did. You've felt it, every single day, for the past year. The quiet completeness, the profound belonging that his presence had brought into every corner of your life.

So you kiss him. Not like that first night, charged with nervous possibility and the thrilling unknown. This one is different. It's steadier. Familiar. Like something well-loved, deeply cherished, and perfectly settled, a deep breath of coming home. It’s a kiss of deep roots and shared future, of everyday magic, and a love that has bloomed into a comfortable, enduring truth.

When you pull back, only just, he presses his forehead to yours, his breath a soft caress against your lips. "Stay with me," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, "All of it. Always."

And you say, "I already am." Every fibre of your being, every beat of your heart, affirmed the truth of those words.

[mattsnight]

My girls pleasure - Chris Sturniolo

Summary: in which y/n comes over for a project, but something happens.

Warnings: smut, cursing, pet names, use of y/n..

That smirk. You wanted to slap it off of his face so bad, but you held back. Chris’ hands finally found themselves in your panties, moving around on your skin. You had always had a slight crush on him since he was hot and all. Chris also had a crush on you, but he didn’t care to hide it. He was obsessed with you and everyone knew.

This.. stuff started with you coming over for a school project. Classic. It was 60% of your end grade, so it was important. The both of you knew.

You had been studying for around an hour when you felt yourself getting wet by just his hands. He had nice fingers.. and long too, that just got you over the edge. Chris noticed you moving around and squeezing your thighs together. Of course he had to do something.

Now, he’s looking at you with a smirk, his fingers continuing to explore your smooth skin. Damn you're so soft and warm. He gently spreads your legs apart, letting his hand slip further underneath your panties. “Tell me exactly what you want.” his fingers tease along your inner thigh, maddeningly close to your most sensitive area but not quite touching.

“Touch me… please.” You say, exhaling deeply. He lets out a satisfied groan and finally brushes his fingers against your folds, feeling your heat and wetness as he does so. “fuck, you're soaked.” he gently rubs his finger against your clit, applying light pressure. “like that, baby?” Slowly he increases the pressure and speed of his touch, watching your face intently. “keep your eyes on me, okay?” you nod eagerly, your breath hitching as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. “that's it, ma. You're doing so good.”

Then, he gently adds a finger to the pleasure, pushing it deep into your tight hole. Soon after, he adds a second finger, scissoring them inside you as he continues to rub your clit with his thumb. “fuck, you're so tight.” he looks down at his hand, watching his fingers disappear inside you. He was proud of himself for doing this to you, for giving you the pleasure you deserve. You were really enjoying this too. He knew that because of the soft noises you were making.

He brings his mouth to yours, capturing your moans in a deep kiss as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. “you can come for me, baby. let me feel you squeeze my fingers.” he whispers against your lips. That was your sign, you let go immediately of the pleasure you were holding back. Waves of pleasure waves over you as you arch your back.

He groans against your mouth, his fingers continuing to pump in and out of you as you convulse around them. He swallows your cries as he kisses you searing and passionate. “That's it. Give it all to me, my girls pleasure.”

Slowly, he pulls his fingers out of you and brings them to his mouth, sucking your essence off of them. He leans down and kisses you again, sharing your taste between you both. You hum at the feeling. He doesn’t give you time to recover. Instead, he rolls you over, breaking the kiss. You’re now lying on your stomach. He pushes your legs apart and climbs between them, his eyes locked on your back. You just lay there. He reaches into the nightstand and grabs a condom, tearing it open with his teeth.

His boxers fall to the ground. Then he rolls the condom onto his length. He positions himself at your entrance, his body tensing up at the feeling. His strong hands grip your hips. Then he gently pulls you back onto him as he pushes forward, filling you completely. He lets out a low groan, his fingers digging into your hips.

“Ma..” his voice was strained as he tried to regain control. He began to move, setting a deep and deliberate pace. His thrusts were long and powerful, filling you completely before pulling almost all the way out. “look at you, taking me so well. you're like a dream” he leans forward. Your back is now covered with his chest as he continued to move within you. His mouth finds your neck, kissing and nipping at your skin as his pace quickened.

“Youre so big!” You cry out as you start clenching around him. A grunt is earned in approval, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he picks up the pace. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the room, mingling with your moans and his low growls. “You're milking me so good. You like that, don't you?”

Then, out of nowhere, you cum hard around him. More waves of pleasure are thrown at you. Chris’ movements become even more urgent as he feels you convulse around him. He buries his face in your neck, his hot breath against your skin. With a final thrust, he finds his own release, his body shuddering as he spills into the condom.

He collapses next to you, pulling you into his arms. He presses a tender kiss to your temple, his hand stroking your back. “You did so well, baby. That was amazing.” He looks into your eyes with a satisfied smirk on his face.

That project could wait until later.

[cherriicou]

‘MV SHOOT’

MDNI 18+

SUMMARY | wonwoo and mingyu invite you over for a 'mv shooting’.

PAIRING | idol!mingyu x fem!reader x idol!wonwoo

CONTENT | threesome, unprotected sex (be safe), dumbification, slight choking, degrading, sub! reader, nipple play, overstimulation

WORDS | 693

A/N | sleepy write before bed. was watching nana tour while doing this lol.

it was quite a surprise when your friends mingyu and wonwoo invited you to their apartment for a 'business project'. saying that they had a song recorded and wanted you to appear in their mv.

they had never mentioned their own song coming out so you naively agreed and hurried to their apartment.

the moment you walked in the door, they both stood next to each other with a matching set outfit folded in mingyu's hands. it took them hoursss to find an outfit that suit both of their tastes. knowing that you'd wear it no matter how skimpy you thought it was just for them made this moment so much more exciting. you, unaware of their intentions, happily took the clothes and went to the bathroom to change.

wonwoo and mingyu waited in the kitchen; one sitting on the stool near the island and the other leaning against the counter. whilst you're trying to be pretty for them, they start to imagine how good you'll look. the dirty thoughts making their muscles tense and veins visibly shown.

the door opens; mingyu almost falls off the chair and wonwoo's legs tremble a bit as he straightens up from the counter. your is hair perfectly sitting on the tiny shirt that is barely hiding any cleavage, the tight high waisted skirt compliments your curves, and the stockings that only go up to your mid-thigh is all so breathtaking. it was perfect. and it was just for them.

you let out a tiny cough of shyness. 'isn't it a bit revealing? won't i get hate comments?' the innocent question makes them put on a smirk. oh, you're about to get the farthest thing away from hate.

‘aw my gorgeous girl,’ mingyu walks closer to you.

'we won't let anyone tell you a single thing, isn't that right woo?' wonwoo nods, his eyes looking up and down your body.

'why don't you head upstairs where we set up the cameras hm?' wonwoo snakes his hands around your waist, pushing you towards the stairs calmly.

'upstairs.?' mingyu looks down at you while you stayed standing at the bottom of stairs confused.

'just follow him, pretty.’ wonwoo pats your head softly. you scurry up the stairs and wonwoo sighs at your skirt revealing hints of your ass after each step you take.

it all happened so fast.

now being on all fours, being pounded behind by mingyu. whilst wonwoo uses your mouth roughly, groaning while your moans vibrate around his cock.

"aren't you a stupid slut hm? really thought we'd let everyone see what's ours?" mingyu brings his thumb to your overly sensitive clit, causing you to jolt closer towards wonwoo.

"is that what you wanted? show our fans your pretty little body?" you shook your head in vigour, your body already shaking from the overstimulation.

"look at her, mingyu. too dumbfucked to even comprehend words." wonwoo grabbed onto your throat, making you stare directly into his fox-like eyes. eyes completely darkened as he took in the sounds of your moans and the fucked out state you were currently in.

"please! t-too.. much..!" the overbearing pleasure is too much that you feel like you're going to break soon.

"t-t-too much" mingyu mocks you, grinning at the way he felt your cunt start to tighten for the third time. wonwoo's hands knead your breasts and pulled at your nipples while mingyu continued to work on your abused pussy, driving you into insensibility of the moment.

"mingyu! ah- wonwoo! please.. c-cant!" The two men only groan at your pleads, steering them more into euphoria. wonwoo pulls you into a messy make out session. you're completely brain fucked, making kissing you even more enjoyable as you can't control your movements.

"you've got it. take it, yea? like we're trained you before." they then switch places so fast, not even a second to breathe from the amount of energy that's being taken from your body.

wonwoo groans as he enters you, making you shiver and moan loudly while holding onto mingyu's biceps. "now let me see the beautiful view i couldn't see before"

there was no chance this was ending soon.